Two Minutes (One Hundred Twenty Per Hour)

The rain folds the night
like paper crackling
between its arthritic fingers.

We drive without talking,
without thinking,
the world around us an open mouth.

The wheels hold us, humming
over wet concrete.
The searching green-eyed glow of the speedometer.

A billboard’s bright face against the dark.
An Exit sign.
We follow the arrows, read without reading.

Service centre like a space station,
we find our feet again,
unfold—lock up, fumble, walk, and float.

The air starched hard
against our teeth.
We carry out, and swallow sweet.

Tonight, tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow,
we go, slamming doors,
tiny teeth of a key kissing the ignition.

—EMILY SCHULTZ