A morningcommute to Sanford(in a Beat voice)
The coughing hum of tired engine coming to its calculated roar under the dew wet hood. Leaves dancing in the wind. Morning snaps forth in bursts of blue sky and orange-tinged horizon. Wake, children. Rise to your cubicle-clad futures and drive, children of America, boys of grass-stained jean memory, wake and go. Work calls from the abdomen of duty, gut of responsibility. Sleep is a thing of the heart or the head, a bodily function not allowed for thee no more, no more today.
Morning breaks. Go. Take to her highways. Her broken, pot-holed paths to prosperity. Hit the shoulder. Hear her hum, hum like the engine under your hood, a hood holding all the power of your getting there like under the hood is a man’s broad chest, the beating of life, the go. Go. Strangers pass around you in your hesitant slowness like water with little patience for rocks jutting forth in a stream. Strangers pass and take with them other hopes for the day, hopes that are not yours but same as yours, hopes for something more, a great leap, a prosperous day free of penalty, with a penchant for wine, the bearded fellow to the right, who is driving fast like running from his wife, to work and then to a drink, you know.
Blue sky now in all its silly university brightness, dotted with clouds with no potential for rain. Over a railroad track you know not where it leads but know it marks some nearly forgotten past made more forgotten by the quick flight of a plane cutting through the dotting and innocent clouds. The highway at the gun-shot-start of day is the American Dream in its hastened beginning, men and women hustling and reaching and hoping and driving and thinking maybe, today, with its clouds of no evil, today will be the day. A red sports car passes fast and you know he too wants the day over before it really begins. Then out of the city, under Highway 55 and the road opens like the arrow of your youth, an arrow in geometry class, a line with an arrow on one end, a thing that just goes to where you can never know because your mind only goes to the edge of the classroom where cinderblock walls stop thought and send back boredom and thoughts of recess. US-1 South, like Route 66 without the rhythm or history or teeming of tumbleweeds rolling. US-1 South, barren, save for pine-soaked land on either side. Unfinished construction of some big highway meant to one day dump cars a plenty onto US-1 South and surely with the dumping of more cars the pine-soaked forest will be a memory like classrooms of days gone and arrows whose endings you can’t see. US-1 South smells like fire and foot, near the brick plant, or is it Sharron Harris Nuclear Plant, a looming tower of something that could make us and US-1 South but a memory, too. Smoking from its tip like a white cigar left upright in an empty cup. Bourbon smell. Or foot. The smoke the cooling tower discards melts into the nice clouds and you’re happy the clouds show no rain for you, wouldn’t want nuclear smoke rain, not on a morning like this, not on a morning where the wind has shed the moisture from your hood and the bright light of the day burns away traces of wet from the roads, not on a day like today when hope is in the highway’s humming and the city noise of Raleigh is surrendering to the serenity of the open highway’s calls. This is your morning commute, America. Raleigh to Sanford, home to work, yesterday to day, morning to today. This is her highway calling you to a brighter day with more jingle in the pockets of your jeans that if you’re lucky will be grass-stained once more this weekend. It is the slipping and sliding jumping joy of autumn announcing the close of another year of your life.