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

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

D.A. Prince

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