When they canceled my flight—mysterious monetary they—
I had to drive, forgetting I'm 65 and it was 8 hours, 4 at night.
December—5 at night. West, then straight North, dividing
Michigan's palm. Should I spell out or use numerals at 65?

The rental car shrunk and expanded around me in the rain-
turning-to-snow. I am rain turning to snow. I crunched
chocolate coffee beans from my bag of snacks. Headlights
seemed to dim across the hours. At a rest stop, a woman

dragged her child down the icy path to the toilets.
She gave me a look of terror, and I gave it back.
Glare ice emerged to welcome darkness, and cars
skidded off the road into nightmare. The radio

turned to snow. I curled over the steering wheel
like the opposite of a crash-test dummy. What's
their life expectancy? My speedometer set at 66.
I knew I'd never do this mad drive ever again—

caffeinated joy surged through me! An abandoned
gas station! A salt truck following a snowplow!
A deer playing chicken! I thought I saw Jesus hitch-
hiking on an exit ramp, but nobody does that anymore.