You make a left turn, by the overpass

and maybe it's because you feel your life is running away without you.

wallow in your shoes

(damp from your trek in the creek, your socks squish between your toes)

were you ever driving the car?

or was the steering wheel always dragging your hands along with it

like it's doing now?

you could eat cotton candy while you drive,

shoving fistfuls of melting sugar in your mouth

while the trees go by

getting greyer and smaller

until you realize it's because you're bigger now than you used to be;

does that mean you're colourful?

your chin is sticky with the remembered candy you didn't eat

and your eyes have strayed from the road

you thought you weren't the one steering

but you crashed into the crumbling side of the overpass

and blamed yourself

if you had turned right

what's the last thing you remember?

the way your knuckles looked, clenched around the wheel?

the way your teeth felt electric?

the way the wall loomed? you noticed every crack

perhaps for the first time

you make a left turn, by the overpass

hauling the battered car back onto the dirt road

socks squelching between your toes, foot on the gas

remembered cotton candy staining your teeth

and on you drive

wondering if the steering wheel would keep on turning if you let go