My Days

My days are bright as bumper chrome,
intensity few retinas can take.
My thoughts are clear and patient, reticent,
and tangible as stoplights in the sun.

However, days are highway lanes. My home
is lost in smoggy traffic. Headlights break,
and maniacs will smash magnificent,
reflective brains, which, once smashed, are done.

I slow on curves to disinterest fate
and try to miss the madman morning rush,
but speed, fatigue, combined momentum,
weight, can blame a ditch and accidental crush.

There are no open roads. There is no joy
in driving fast. I am a backyard boy.