Highway

After miles of self-elected pace setter cars, swervers
who pass and cut back like pinking shears, the
perpetual left turn signaller took a right off-ramp, it’s me
and the ones going by like I’m standing still, and the
poke-a-long-hazardy with dents on both sides
of body panels. On the 417, around a bend,

rows of cars slow ahead – what’s with this? then at
overpass’ posts, the nose of a copper. On sight of
the speed gun my foot springs up, sole light as drizzle,
drop sandbags from laces, 8, 10, 12, 20 clicks off instantly.

Already 2 cars are wincing on the gravel shoulder.
Speed trap dad would say, my partner would reject that
reenforcing common sense.

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