I-10, between West and East

Isolation flows
along this concrete
river which is no longer
unfamiliar

The journeys back and forth
are no longer as wearing
as once they were

There is a predictable
magic in the sound of the engine,
the speed, the poetry of the commute
written in rubber left on the asphalt,
gleaming from headlights through
a dirty windshield

There is a kind of peace,
here, yes, there is peace
of a kind

But the cacophony
strains through
smiling acceptance

sends forth notice
that the desperation
cannot be quiet
much longer.