My driver’s name is my name.
Chauffeur and passenger simultaneously.
Sometimes while in conversation with myself,
I become misplaced on a highway
that is not my destination’s highway.
Somedays, the highways know best
where I am truly headed.
On those somedays, I ask myself
Where are we headed?
I never know, but I trust the highway
like it is a black asphalt angel.
In the upper midwest, it is a grey concrete angel.
In the desert southwest, it can be a red clay angel.
In April, the highway took me
all the way to Appomattox, Virginia.
I guess I needed a beginning to an end.
Reasonable terms for the cessation of hostilities.
The highway just informed me
it is time for me to end my divided war.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney