You idiot, is what you say
to the driver five cars ahead of you
on the two-lane road that winds
through the river canyon.
There is no passing lane,
and you feel the crush
of the minutes as they rub against each other
while the white SUV five cars ahead
does not pull over
in the wide spot on the road
where all conscientious slow drivers know
to pull over to let the other drivers pass.
Idiot, you grumble, and miss
any beauty outside the window—
red rock cliffs and diamonding streams—
focused as you are on the speedometer,
the brake. Once it was you,
a girl of fifteen, who drove so cautiously
the windy roads to church
on a Sunday morning, that first day
with your driver’s permit.
And who was it in the long line
behind you who called the police
to report a drunk driver?
When the police pulled you over,
not one but two squad cars
with blaring red and blue lights,
you didn’t cry when the officers laughed—
there was warmth in their relief
to find that you were not drunk, but young.
No, you cried after they walked away,
cried all the way to mass.
Bless them, the irate ones,
the ones who fume in the back,
the ones who think furious thoughts.
That’s right. Bless yourself,
you, the livid one who even now
is hurling names at the other travelers
on the same paved path.
Settle in. Sixteen miles under the speed limit
will give you time to think about
how we’re all traveling
the same winding road
no matter which route we take—
all of us pilgrims journeying toward
a generous, elusive grace.