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 crushing
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,
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 they pulled you over,
the two squad cars with their blaring 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, can you find
a way to love her, this hurler of names,
this one who disdains the others going
the same way she is going? Laugh
at her if you can, a real laugh.
Tell her you get it, it’s frustrating.
Tell her we are all travelling the same winding road
toward evening, toward morning,
toward grace.
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