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.