Perhaps when I’ve lived long enough
that time and I have become good friends,
I will no longer curse at semi-trucks
going sloooow on the two-lane highway.
No, I will simply drive fourteen miles under the speed limit
and happily harmonize with the oversexed songs on pop radio
and notice how beautiful the swirls in the red rock cliffs.
I will not imagine fitting consequences
for drivers who pass in no-passing zones.
I will simply say thoughtful little prayers for them
to protect them on their way
as they blithely jeopardize the lives
of every other human on the road.
And I’ll be so grateful for construction delays—
how they give me time to sit and reflect
about how happy I am to no longer be
the kind of woman who gets upset about traffic
and all the small-hearted dim wits
who don’t pull over when twelve cars are following them—
yes, it will be so nice to sit there beside the orange cones
with a smile on my face,
not ashamed at all that I used to be so bothered by it,
oh, remember that chapter?
I’ll be so amused I ever thought it was a problem
to creep an inch an minute for an hour and a half—
how lovely the slowness, the pace of patience,
my hands on the wheel, my foot humming above the brake.