On the 857 (Tianjin)

What is it about empty Chicago lanes?
The gentle purr in my bones and lull of the lines
- - - - - - -
Heading east on Roosevelt, then I290
Alone.

Drive.

Red lights turn green in their own time.
They hustle for no man.
Street lamps cast my shadow
Like a broken record, from front to back
In clips and phrases
Again.
And again.
And again.

DRIVE.

Lean this tired head on a frozen pane of glass
The clarity that keeps me separated from 80 mile bursts
Of the Lake’s December wrath.
There’s nowhere to lean a tired soul though,
Not when The Roots are laying down:
“Still your sunken heart thumpin’ like a kick in a snare.”

DRIVE, Damnit.

Where??
Cross the bridge. The concrete towers loom.
Empty.

Michigan Ave can’t take my thoughts
Far enough from here.

No, not when you’re the one driving my mind.