Miles Per Life
Every day, I drive from my street onto the highway, rush to 55 mph slow to 45 then 35 through town. From home, to home always an inching back or zipping forward from sign to sign. Today, I turn the age of the youngest speed. The years will accelerate in rising order regardless of which way I’m heading. But in the realm where I prefer to move, I’ve lived each limit already, can look back at my linear self driving linear roads and wonder why I focus so on numbers why I sigh at yellow lights and cross-walkers. I always make it home. Home—more than the number it wears to be found. Age—more than the speed I live it. Both—just figures to help me know how close I am.
