on the way

we were moving

the highway rushed before us in a great swell
car conversation churning slowly with future voices
echoing softly from the cracks between the seats 
and the undersides of the headrests 
and the fingerprints on the windowpanes
talk of rippling traffic morphing into greetings of arrival
of faces blurred beneath smudged surfaces
two way mirrors in the pavement
faceless profiles of the people I would meet
beneath the highway, calling up over the dotted yellow line
and I could not see them because what was before me was behind us, underneath us
their exhales mixing with our exhaust 

I could imagine them
dancing across the glossy surface of the interstate
toes tangoing over the skid marks and the litter and the roadkill
the lights over the highway bent over themselves
like two slender dancers bowing on a ballroom floor
establishing a formation rhythmically, methodically
same pattern, same bend in the steel, same sloping neckline
arching over the highway, implying movement, remaining stationary
they kept coming, falling into place and each new light proved progress
down the repetition of road
they showed me the figures of the people I would meet
the way they danced around the car
rushing towards us all at once
leaping, pirouetting around rolling tires
blurring together with every renewed impulse to the gas pedal
I felt the drum of the beat in my head, behind my eyes
a vibrancy of motion, an overlapping of sounds
watercolor expectations splashing across the windshield

…and meanwhile my father commented on the monotony of the interstate, on the thirteen hours we had left to go

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