I was behind an elderly lady,
who was driving just below the limit.
She was talking to someone not there.
An old argument, now she’ll win it
A second woman driving,
spoke to a man at her side.
His face was an expression
of need with nowhere to hide.
I tend to drive on automatic pilot
toward some spot on a distant plane.
At every turn that matters, my wife
reminds me again and again
Her driving preference seems to be,
to speed up and abruptly use the brakes.
I favor smoother increase and stops.
We don’t agree on what it takes.
The specter’s at my shoulder.
My days are surely numbered.
I must soon turn over the reins
And then pretend to slumber.
Of the two scenes along the way
Do not ask which I would choose.
The demands of age hold more sway
It’s one more constant that we lose.