Nobody does the speed limit in the small hours of the night.
Everyone I see either speeds or slows,
matching me or chasing the street lights away.
The reflectors dividing the lanes blink as I pass them.
It’s quiet, even with the radio on.
The sky, reflecting light pollution, seems artificial itself,
the cloud cover becoming an undetailed backdrop,
there only to outline the trees on the roadside.
Breaks in the pavement are accustomed disruptions.
A raccoon lumbers along the roadside,
smaller versions following,
all glancing aside to see me pass.
Some nights I see deer, but none tonight.
I’m not even really here: autopilot takes me home,
car and body,
mind ranging I-know-not-where.
Tonight, again, I will see,
and I have a bet with myself.
Nobody will do the speed limit in the small hours of the night.

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