Peering from my window on a rainy afternoon,

Which I did a lot that summer,

I took notice of that mundane suburban street.

Even with beads of water

Blurring my vision, so that the trees became

Green blotches and the houses 

Seemed nothing more than pitch roofed carry-ons,

I could tell the street held no appeal–

No purpose but to move the world in one of two

Preordained, godless directions.

No matter how much I rubbed my eyes or

Turned my head, I couldn’t shake 

The feeling that the street was coaxing me, 

Casting promises of wild night-time 

Rides and genial sunday afternoon cruises on

That clean, unrelenting straight-away.

As days wore on, and July rain turned into August heat,

I kept shuffling forward to that 

Front window, beguiled by the comfort of the road’s 

Time-tested promises: “Come,” 

It seemed to say, “Let me show you where we can go.”

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy,

An old man drove by in his black, combustible machine

With an absent, wistful countenance 

Focusing steadily forward; all the while he gazed unseeing

At what he glided by in haste.

For, so long as I stood by that window, with my nose

Up against the panelled glass,

I saw naught but the passage of people and place,

And the grinding, everlasting

Asphalt of necessity, driving me on to fate.