The Road Home

frigid night
stained bright
by orange glare
of tall streetlight
I step into the parking lot
car already running
warming
black in blackness
barely seen against the asphalt
nothing moves
except steaming car exhaust
these small hours of the night
no evidence of life
or frenzied work
escapes from back within
the faceless walls
of warehouse left behind

empty road
curves through
concrete canyonlands
steam swirling over
lonely road
crisp with sparkling ice
headlights
pools of vision
for night-blind
travellers
the restless wanderers
of sleepless hours
road rising to oasis
of intersection
small world of light
and moving frieght
hung frozen everlasting
in the dark

smooth street
slick-iced with
the lonilness
of hours empty
curls downward
and around
through tunnels
of overhead highway
past jigsaw walls
of retaining stone
and concrete panels
blocking rush of traffic
from sleeping ears

desolate expressway
empty as a frozen
river surface
smooth as gleaming glass
center of a universe
of one
where I can think
and plan the day ahead
enjoying solitude
so precious
until the final lift
before the off-ramp comes
and there the city rises
bright and gleaming
tall lords of buildings
uncompromising
climbing purposeful into
the night-stained sky

They fall behind into
the sweeping curve of road
where thought becomes as smooth
as polished jet
and in machine-flow rush
of cars and trucks
all actions are instinctive
long learned by bone and flesh

Curve of roadway becomes
impediment now
long distance lying
between work and home
and so speed grows
as my foot begins to feel
the steps up to the door
until at last I turn
into the quiet of driveway
kill the lights with a touch
engine dying in darkness
and I walk up quickly
to the welcoming door
sighing with relief