I-5 Southbound

Hurtling through the rain, the dark,
At unsafe speeds
It's the Little Death I crave, but fear
The Big Death on its shoulder.

Rolling down the windows only splashes my glasses,
But the coffee's cold now, and bitter.
Staring eyes, hollow limes in the dash light,
Propped wide open with caffeine toothpicks -
An unwilling Bodidharma.

I punch off the CBC static and
Scream
For the hell of it, and jolt myself into laughing.

Moron.
Only three hundred more miles of this madness.