Grind

Photo by forge

The engine comes to life with a turn of the wrist.
Seat belt clicks. Shift into gear. Foot on the gas.
Time to go, go, go.

Stop sign. Turn. Stop sign. Straight.
The white sedan ahead of you is crawling.
No way around. Take a deep breathe.

The light ahead turns yellow. Red.
Drift into the right lane to turn.
Glance to the left. A warm body nearing death.

Right on red to continue the journey.
Traffic on the highway is sparse.
Open roads feel like absolute freedom.

Mile marker 27. 41. 63.
A favorite song fills the empty space around you.
Turn up the volume just a little too loud.

A monstrous red SUV flies up from behind.
It cuts to your left. No blinker. Dick.
Seconds later it's merely a speck on the horizon.

Billboards and road signs.
Restaurants. Gas stations. Hotels.
The buildings in the city run together.

Shouldn't your exit be coming up?
Oh shit. Almost missed it. Sorry minivan.
You passively wave, begging for forgiveness.

Parking lot is nearly full.
Somebody knew you were coming.
They left you a parking space.

The engine dies.
Grab your bag, your lunch, your hope.
Seat belt loosens. Door opens. Door closes.

Thirty floors of concrete and steel loom.
Eyes locked forward. Tight grip on your bag.
Deep breath. Fuck. This. Place.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Cribbage with Grandpas

Social Media Break

February 2024 Wrap-Up