I hit the Write button.

 A command is returned:

“Continue.”

I am coloring outside the lines. 

I have been here before,

wavered here before. 

Wandered chicken-shit all over the road,

but I don’t think I have been

on this

particular road before. 

Yet it looks familiar. 

I stop the car and get out. 

I can hear the door closing,

crisp behind me,

the clatter of the engine at idle.

I can hear my boots on the blacktop

as I walk across the bright

yellow line

and stoop. 

A bird cries from a fence row

and swoops off across the field.