91 Westbound

A solitary drop slipping downward,
slicing through a sheet of ice
that melts three blocks from home.
A thin slit that sneaks in light,
like a bedroom door
leaking out from underneath,
leaking air from worn out tires.
The rattle of an engine,
or a spinning ceiling fan.
Fasten seat belt, beeping loud,
the smoke alarm needs triple A's.
I need AAA, I lost control,
the control that flips to Channel 04.
Changing lanes, 98 miles away.
Blinking light, I'm out of fuel.
Wailing lights that cry to me:
You're out.