jo steigerwald
Interstate
Sulfur mouth above Gary Indiana:
concrete steps, pinoche, cabbage.
Gravel slides under tire tread,
skips over roadbed, expansion belt, median.
Bridge arches into gray when you drive into air on the Skyway.
You can’t look down.
You can’t get breath.
You can’t look at your mother,
The passenger,
whose infinite synapses fray just a little bit more
with every firing of the spark plug, turn of the wheel,
mile down the road.
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