Direction

Driving southwest
(like misguided geese),
we peer out into the
gray December dusk.
The electronic highway sign
shouts, "6:34 p.m."
like a 21st century night watchman,
forgetting to comment
that all is well.
A sleek jet rushes overhead,
and I wish I were on it
(no matter where it's going).
I can't help thinking my life
has become a slide show of some
Leave-It-to-Beaver world--
full of repetitive small talk
about the price of gas
while picking lint off an old, gray sweater.