Steady low rush of lines of cars rolling down I 85.
Sounding like a steady river, like a train with no tracks.
Deep, and groaning, and steady never ending.
In the shade of some kind of skin-wilting little shrub-like ornamental trees,
eye shaped leaves, still green, still in the movement of a steady late summer breeze.
Steady like the heat.

One wave after another like walking feet,
curling into worn out shoes, like big black tires
gripping that overcooked, worn down gray rock road,
where the traffic is only either stop or go and never slow.

Just race at breakneck pace or static. Bumper to bumper and in a panic.
For there is no middle ground on six lane roads.
There is no herd mentality grinding into burnt, smoke fuming engines in the distance.
They are all gripping wheels, chipping rubber, cracking chunks of asphalt.
Hugging shoulders. In competition with one another.
None are even considering their tight-necked neighbors.
Or working, slowing, showing caution to avoid the very worst.
Not even just trying to get on home, but,
to get there first.