A poem for Monday, while it lasts (though I wrote it last Wednesday)

The future looms ahead through an icy windshield.
Wipers only scratch at the opacity with grinding whirs and clicks,
Reminding us of the utter futility of divination.
The heat sputters fitfully below the soporific breath of the engine,
Pines heavy with blindingly white snow fill the view on either side,
And we speed down the highway, completely unaware of what lies
Mere yards in front of our bumper;
A jackknifed tractor-trailer bringing certain death,
The exit we are hoping for,
Or just the open road.
Any option can only effect the then, never the now.

The cassette is rewinding so we can hear side A again,
The hum of the spinning tape blends with the general din,
Turning white noise gray.
Empty bottles and wrappers litter the floor,
French fries have fallen into the gap between the seats,
(we will smell them for the rest of the trip)
And the remnants of our sodas have gone flat.
No one even remembers how long ago the last rest stop was,
Or how many miles the last sign said there was to go.
You pull the steering wheel because you can no longer wait,
The need to stretch your legs is overwhelming,
But the car does not swerve and the future rushes at us,
The same as it ever did,
Its velocity pushing us back into the coarse cushions.