I am guessing
her hair is blue.
But just a guess
for all I see are knuckles,
white knuckles that clutch
at the wheel
like a drowning swimmer
clings to flotsam.
The left turn signal
has been flashing since Charleston,
thirty-seven minutes ago.
It is conceivable she
really is turning
but is just very cautious.
Or perhaps she is a perfectly
sentient old woman
with a grim sense of humor.
My exit was fifteen minutes ago,
only now I must follow her
to see how long she can
keep it up.
This is more entertaining,
more poignant than anything
I was going to do.
There is something real
happening here,
something pure and natural,
and I must see it through
to its rightful end.
I have come to believe
that she will truly turn
one day.
And when she does
I will be there.
I will turn as well.
Only when I do, I will
not use my signal.
For we are now one
and she has signaled
for us both.
I can offer nothing more.