You can’t move that fast and live.

You can’t weave in and out of people without leaving a wake.

You can’t ignore the laws of physics. Even if I can’t recite them,
I know them to be true.

Your speed does not reflect your importance. The width
of the lane is fixed and the lines don’t alter.

There is no one you need to reach so much
on the cloud
that you need to push buttons
without your hand on the wheel
or your eyes on the road.

Asphalt softens in the heat, but
that tolerance
will not soften the blow.

Where are you going, really, that your path,
your shuttling trajectory,
is any more signifiant than mine?

Why pass with inches to spare,
the space of feathers on angels’ wings?

Once, it only happens once, that your life is reflected
as a number on the highway billboard.
You won’t get another hand on the steering wheel.

Why wreck?

I would rather meet you at the next branch off
this thoroughfare. Wave at you, as you turn
into your neighborhood,
or your parking lot,
or take a place in metered parking.

You can’t
move that fast and live.


I drive to and from Ann Arbor everyday on US23, one of the most dangerous roadways in the beautiful state of Michigan, as a commuter. Tonight, a semi flipped on I-96, just before US23. I don’t know the fate of the driver. I do know that, on average, Michigan roads lose 2 drivers a day to fatality accidents.