It, the speedometer, says ninety miles an hour but
it must be lying because things aren't moving at all.
From where I sit,
things couldn't possibly be moving.
Off center, as other things move faster, they compress,
they contract around themselves and
all appearances become skewed, off-kilter,
and what is not moving is stretched-out, expanded,
and takes up more room than it actually needs.
Or is it the other way around?
What I see when I look through the glass at the front of the car
are the things that look like the people I used to see but distorted.
I point at them, I wave, but whatever they have become
doesn't seem to recognize me.
I guess they see something else. And
I wonder what it might be? Perhaps
a shooting star, a what-do-you-call-it, a meteor?
A piece of burning something unrecognizable in a cocoon of flame?
Now it, the speedometer, says one hundred and ten but
things are still the same.
What is going on here? I ask myself
but it is an echo of something I'd heard before,
a sound I’d just caught up to hearing.
I wonder when this will stop? I ask myself,
long after it already has.