A Poem About Home But Mostly Not

On nights spiked with bright bolts of
daylight
the rain plunking down
perfect angle
to the windshield.
Too fast. 
Roads become
black mirrors and a pang of
anything-but-racing-home
hits.
 
Remembering
feeling like this
days ago
sun shining so bright 
slicing
straight through the sky
taking it out on the
steering wheel
feeling it a companion
and
champion for your fists
and
finger-tapping-drumming-strumming
along the twists of a road
song
not needing a reason to
be pissed
joyous.
 
The only thing sensations
are revs inside your heart
wind against your palm
music knocking around in your guts.
You know you won’t
notice
as you pass by
the road that goes home.
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