Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
Rain needles the visor until every headlight flowers. The lane line disappears,
The sign says home is twenty miles. I choose the road that makes it forty. Past the quarry,
Eight tail-lights mark the dark, each one keeping the next in sight. No speeches at sixty miles an hour.
Not all at once, he says, his hand above mine but not taking over.
All winter the motorcycle waits beneath a grey cover. I turn the wheels by hand,
At the red light, the engine warms my knees. A child in the next car
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