Thirty-five miles until we

reached the exit, the sign read, that has

meant Christmas to me

since I was six.

So I tried to sink back

into my seat, discovering, though,

that once you have sunken

all the way, you have to

sit up again, surface for air, and wait

a time until you can sink

again.

In a green minivan flashing by

a girl looked skyward as she

sat silent with her headphones.

How far was she

from her exit?

 

The driveway was smooth black as

we pulled in, glistening with melted

flurries as we left.

Back on the highway, swimming

with the red glow, watching the white light

flowing against us.

Trying to sink, heading home.