Impressionism

I wake up in a car hurtling down the

highway with my seatbelt hanging

somewhere between the seat and the door, standing

in the middle of the floor between the seats, with one hand

on an armrest that calmly explains,

through sticky plastic lips, that it would like to rest today

and I will have to find another support system. My feet

slide on well-worn floor mats. The steering wheel

turns without hands to guide it, and I

cannot see who is sitting in the driver’s seat. The trees outside

blur into impressionistic paintings of green and brown

around the soleil levant before the windshield. My fingers close

on the door handle, and as the door slides open,

I wake up in another dream.