I've forgotten the value of momentum. My drive for poetry has become a slow road that is not on any map. A Cicada crashes onto my hood, quickly rights itself and flies away, my eyes trailing it to the eight percent upgrade in front of me. Quickly I burp the brakes and backpedal dropping two three four gears just to catch ground. It is difficult to manuever my bulky conveyance through these tight corners. Sight distance is limited and reminders flash like construction markers in the night. Puritans scowl at me as I pass their tidy little boxes. The fingering trees flick my antennae and I snatch the wheel back from the edge, correcting, overcorrecting splitting hairs and gears, my hands blistering from the constant friction. There is a clearing here, somewhere, with a straighter road through an open meadow where a small toll bridge waits. I will pay, sigh, look at the next hill and grin. And remember to keep my foot in it.