Tonight,
driving people to their destinations,
listening to them
worry on their phones,
barely talking to me
or talking to me nonstop and 

I agree,
I agree,
I agree
till I’m weary of agreement;

yes, these roads are bad.
Yes, these roads are busy.
Yes, there are too many 
deep ruts. Yes, someone
ought to do something
about it.

Tonight, I drove
the longest unpaved road
in the city to its end
with a man stinking of 
some sweet liquor
who warned me and warned me
how bad the road
ahead would be.

Tonight,
I drove Wildwood Road
to its faraway end,
came back around
the cul-de-sac
onto the same ruts and potholes
I’d just covered,
knowing enough
this time about where
the hardest blows
to the suspension would come
to slow down enough
to soften them.

Tonight, 
I came home 
over the roads I know best,
missing every pit and 
axle-breaker hole
because I know it all 
so well.

Someone ought to do something
about it one of these days

but until then
I take it one night at a time:
dodging, avoiding,
half listening to complaints
and monologues;

trying
to hold it together
while I drive
and drive.