Drive on

Beyond all sorrow’s futile gestures;

tears that well-up, 
misting your eyes as you sit patiently

waiting for the red light to change

at an inter-section not too far

from the end of the road

that leads to an old man’s resting place 

or the parched throat, 
too dry to swallow, too sore to cough 
and clear away the ache that sticks there

irritating your Adam’s apple,

leaving you unable to say the words

you never found the time to say

(too late to say in any case)

there is the tiny hope

like a tremor, deep underground,

so deep there is no point in measuring it,

which makes you smile despite yourself.

When the lights change

you take your foot off the brake again

and, foot-down on the accelerator,

indicate to others then change lanes.

.