One Poem by Toyb ben Uilliam

 

The Drive

Driving along a well lit night,

haven't seen a soul for miles,

or a rest stop, or a cop,

but you can see the road.

 

Car's warm.

Heater blowing soft air,

blanketing your lungs.

 

Radio's well worn but solid,

with the suggestion of a hum,

but otherwise crisp and clear.

 

It is on, you drive, you listen.

 

The voice swells into the compartment,

giving warmth, giving form, giving structure,

telling the wheels, take one more go,

take one more go around.

you're told there are wheels,

there are four of them,

that they are dutiful and good.

 

The voice tells the seats to invite,

to heat and soften their old skins,

and give off one last huff,

of fresh tanning.

You are told there are leather seats,

and you are lounging on one,

loosening the muscles in your back.

 

The voice is coming from around you,

pressure swelling within and without,

not an implosion but the buoying,

of the car along this singular night.

You don't recall seeing a soul for miles,

or a rest stop, or a cop.

You are told there is a road.

You are told it’s okay,

the air is warm and soft.

There is a radio the voice says,

well worn but solid,

with the suggestion of a hum.

There is a radio that's crisp and clear.

Toyb ben Uilliam (they/them) is a botanist and IWW union organizer from the American Northeast. Their work has appeared in Discretionary Love and is upcoming in Rulerless.