His highway 14 is a string of lights

in this fog, and the river is only

just now visible. Back at the manse

he’s stuck in a frame looking

at his books, the neat sets he

never read, and wonders if he

ought to’ve.

Given his druthers he’d be not in the frame

and not on the road,

but on the terrace overlooking the river,

where no one is rushing around

trying to make, make, make it

before they die.