Night Drive
Charles D. Moskus
The needle was pushing 100
You married the gas pedal
to the floorboard, your arms
braced straight against the wheel
as if pushing even more
speed and you did as 105 came
and went on that rural highway
sometime after midnight.
The rain was cobweb crushed
across the windshield as we screamed
"110" our voices almost lost
in the pointless howl of air and metal.
Our eyes tried to strain beyond
the headlights knowing
there would be no time to stop.
As we roared past 115, tires
barely holding to the road,
we knew this was all
there was ever going to be:
drunken glories fading faster
than we could ever drive.
The things that others clutch
slip through our indifferent hands,
disappearing in a wind-teared blink
like a beer bottle flung from the window.
Faithful lovers of the empty
clinging to an edge and hurling
nowhere through the night.