The Lodge – Dan Schell

Propelled by peer pressure
down the concrete corridor,
traffic flows around slower cars
like rapids encircling a boulder,
the slowest still ten over, yet
still appearing to hover
in suspended animation
from the middle lane.

Mustering the courage to merge
is like stepping onto a riverbed’s
slippery stones; one wrong move
can cast you to the shoulder
like a gutter ball
at the Garden Bowl.

Some drive with hazards flashing,
like waving flags of surrender
in a pirates’ lawless sea;
I never witnessed a crash
but almost saw plenty;
when their grilles sniff your rear end
like curious dogs, trying to be seen
by causing a scene, license plates
covered or missing,
a masked Jolly Roger
blockading safe travel.

I can’t drive 55
without luck on my side;
the speed limit a suggestion,
any suggestion is challenged
by any Dodge Challenger;
looking fate straight in the eye,
with full faith and credit
in the crumple zone,
every curve squealing the tires
in protest, a middle finger
in the face of physics.

It’s okay to arrive a minute later;
like the Buzzcocks sang,
“You’d better listen to Ralph Nader.”
I let go and pretend I’m a leaf
floating along the gutter
until I take my exit and sigh;
another day from Point A to B,
still alive,
still alive.