mack truck

i was making my way down a particularly dicey part of highway number 5. in a hatchback, black. in a single lane slowpoke being invaded on either side. half the heads i saw were looking back at me from the road. not a good sign in a sea of choppy brake lights. my lane was more compressed than the sacramento real estate rental market and the hottest around. you coulda sold space and got rich in a sec, without thinking. the overpasses left heavy eyeliner inside the shadow of downtown, highlighted by the glass of a thousand former accidents. the exit for Q street was coming up like the question i was asking myself: should i get off this bad trip before i make history? and for all the wrong reasons. sometimes a single choice can save your life. it would take me way off my timing, was the con. i kept my course. i could reach out and touch the rushed commuters, encased in their steel murder machines. i jedi mind tricked myself into a crosswalk mentality, like those white lines meant anything to protect us. i turned up my radio and let down the windows. i threw fear into the wind as i shifted into third. kept my eyes on the tail of a wandering june bug with dual exhaust. all seemed well. then the mack truck came screeching down my left flank and almost pinioned a subaru dead stopped by the weavers, all running interference. i saw the giant wheels roll by and they were smoking. taller than my car! melting rubber for a living! suddenly my world could fit inside a hot wheel. i could read the writing. on the sidewall.

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