The route home is ingrained in my brain,
The bends, the dips,
Even the trees, the shrubberies,
A path worn smooth through my neurones.
Vance Joy’s Riptide hums through the car speakers,
Ocean on our left,
Mountains on our right,
Outside, the coniferous trees sway,
Inside, the seat heaters steam.
Our car, our car, our impervious bubble of heat and tunes,
Our car moves forward,
Our car advances three centimetres,
Ambulance sirens wail over Joy’s melody.
One hour rolls into two.
Only time’s wheels rotate now.
Time moves forward; it mocks our static state.
Lacking in movement.
Forces in equilibrium.
We are not bodies in motion.
When did it get dark out?
When did the air inside get so muggy and stuffy??
Hasn’t this song already played three times???
The motorcyclist in front has had it.
He pushes his bike onto the shoulder.
And is gone.
Staring from my window into someone’s living room.
Baseball is on TV.
I used to think nothing was more boring than baseball.
But watching baseball.
…from my car window.
…into someone else’s window.
The driver a few cars ahead hops out.
He runs into the bushes.
It is now completely dark outside.
Blackberry brambles bristle.
Sinister silhouettes stare.
We stand still.
Traffic jam purgatory.