at seventy-five miles an hour

I love
the
lane
exchanges

black Benz
wants to
go right

I need
to go left

our lights
flicker at
each other

one of us
makes the
first move

then,
permission
and transmission
received,
we each
go.

It feels
like
dancing.

There is
poetry
hurtling
on the
highway
at seventy-five
miles an hour.

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