Tapping the vein
at the cross-section of upper and lower arm
striking the needle deep,
jagged and rough,
upon notice that Second
isn't a one-way street anymore.
Must have changed while I was gone.
My Malibu,
swerving viciously to avoid the old Grand-Am
finds its way into the right lane
the only lane
fitting like a glove on the wrong hand.
Ahead, 475 dictates my departure.
A detour, the sign says,
with little ostentation,
even more accuracy.
The highway vomits me away,
chewed and confused,
an exit before my usual.
Though the path ahead
veers straight as a needle,
it's two miles downwind.
Two miles behind.
Great symbolism
I tell myself
pressing hard on the accelerator.
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