We can all relate to traffic being a rat race. I have always dreaded big city interstates.
One wrong move and you are stuck there for hours. And that’s if you are lucky.
Something about this write makes me wonder if my boys ever studied me in traffic when they were younger.
I enjoyed the read.

Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Excellent write, you’re such a natural storyteller and are able with your amazing imagery to make me feel like I’m watching from the backseat my friend. A great read brother, nicely done. Appreciate you.

Damian

That silent observation of internal conversations is such a profound moment. Terrified in the backseat…I often feel that way about life these days. I have a friend whose grandmother used to drive us around in the backseat of her old green paneled station wagon, having full conversations in her head. But her half was audible. We never knew when she was addressing us or them. Took me back to those rides with this.

This took me back a good few years .. or yonks as we say this side of the pond .. thanks for the ride Thomas .. Neville

I couldn’t help but think of an old neighbor I had when I was young. He would drive me and his son and daughter to school up the street. Thank God it wasn’t far. He would talk as though we weren’t there and every once in a while hit the brake when someone pulled up to the corner of a street waiting to pull out. I couldn’t wait to get out. 🙂 Great story, Thomas.

Thanks. I appreciate it.

What a grand and deeply emotional memory of your Dad at the wheel with all his inner angst haunting him while you his passengers held on for dear life. Truly a great ride of a freeway poem that made for an exhilarating read. Enjoyed this journey through time and the highway. You painted an exquisite portrait of your Dad here my friend.

John

Thank you. Much appreciated.

haunting and chilling with a twist ❤️

Thank you, Crimsin. This is an old piece from my years fighting morphine addiction, given by doctors to treat my pain from an accident. It took twenty years to get free from it completely — and yet I am not free of pain killers. I’ve no choice there. I’m not sure I will keep this posted. It is not me anymore. But thank you for your words, I appreciate them.

Pain here isn’t metaphor — it’s a rabid animal chewing bone, and you let it howl.
Even in the morphine fog, your voice stays feral and human, refusing to die quiet.

The urgency in this is palpable. The way concepts almost run together in the frantic need. Intense. That’s a good word for it. It feels like PTSD and addiction ripping at the page here. Brilliant but it makes me sad for the man who survived that, and glad that it was in the past

Hahaha. This is clever and the rhyming is in point.
Enjoyed the read!

I’m aware of the phases of pain, Curt, and you seem to be as well, tho I do see some differences in our perceptions of it. You might like my piece, “Dark Alice Comes to Call.” Hmmm, I just checked, and it seems I never uploaded that one. Strange, I’ll have to remedy that. In the meantime, along the same lines is, “Dead Muse.” It’s here somewhere.