The Sunday Driver's Quiet Rebellion

I long to become one of those Sunday-county-drivers,

cruising country roads where the world slows its spin,

twenty miles beneath the limit, no hurry in my veins,

just the lazy drift of tires kissing warm blacktop,

fields of emerald rolling out like a soft green quilt,

old red barns leaning into golden afternoon light.No ticking clock gnaws at my wrist,

no phantom deadline pulls me forward—

only the low murmur of an old radio croon,

fiddle notes floating through open windows,

wildflowers nodding along the shoulder

as if they too savor the unhurried hours.I try to picture the soul of a man

truly untouched, unruffled, serene—

when horns blare sharp as shattered glass,

when middle fingers stab the air like furious darts,

when tailgaters loom close, engines snarling threats,

their rage a storm I let pass harmlessly by.Let them surge and swear and weave through the fray,

chasing shadows of time they can never catch.

I stay in my slow, steady lane,

a leaf adrift on a gentle summer stream,

watching their colors blur into frantic streaks

while I breathe the sweet perfume of cut hay,

of rain-kissed earth rising warm from the ground.In this quiet act of defiance—

this deliberate choice to linger—

I taste true freedom:

a red-tailed hawk tracing lazy circles overhead,

children on a porch waving with bright, open smiles,

sunlight splintering through leaves in a thousand tiny sparks,

the slow, sacred turn of seasons etched in every mile.I want to be the one who waves gently back,

who lets the fury slide off like water on waxed glass,

who knows life isn't a sprint to some distant line,

but a long, winding ribbon of road

meant to be tasted, moment by moment,

at the perfect, unhurried pace.And when evening finally draws its soft curtain down,

I'll ease into my driveway with a heart full and light,

no regrets trailing behind, no haste in my step—

only the quiet glow of having lived

every golden second

exactly as it was given.

poetryandrain