Hands on the wheel, changing lanes,
tailgated - no chance to note you, or
your words’ transparence, ghosting
in time with road surface, radio music,
the drum of memory.

Knowing I can’t catch you, even though
you’re near perfection, afraid
one day you’ll be so good I’ll let go,
take my hands off the wheel in the fast lane,
write you down.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.

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