the steering wheel

thought is like a drum:
all it wants is a cue,
then it gets going
dum, dum, dum,
tridudum, dum, dum,
dum, tridudum, dum, dum.

it's also like my old car,
it may sail along blind to the truck
rushing round the corner.

shaken, what do i do?

i turn myself into the car,
its flanks are my flanks as well,
the throttle of its engine is my breathing.

now it's quite the same
as when we used to run
marathons,
starting off in a pack--
at the sound of the gunshot--
through the city traffic.

we don't nudge one another,
we don't step on one another's shoes;
we run listening to one another,
listening to the patter of our shoes
on the road,
listening to our breathing;
and gradually,
pulling off from the pack,
into the villages,
listening just to one breathing,
listening to the bounce of just one pair of feet...
on spring cushion.

*****