On the Evening Before Grad School Starts

She maintains a speed no greater than forty,
alternating between gas and brakes. The back tires
squeal as she chooses the wrong pedal at the wrong time
and she wonders why there are no protective guardrails
along route 501 North’s mountainous terrain.

A train clicks along its tracks,
keeping pace with her.
Coal cars, unused, rusted antique,
wind behind, teasing through the oaks.
She watches as the leaves whisper
their last verdant secrets
through open windows.

Beyond the tracks, a lake quivers against the errant grasses.
She squints as the sun glints from water
to windows of the more confident cars that pass her.
She doesn't blame them -- knows she feels the same way
when they can't navigate her city blocks.
She'd keep one hand on the horn,
one hand flicking off the person behind her.
But out here, people move in silent agreement –
you'll get there eventually,
we'll get there first.

So for now, she’s left to drive herself –
unsure as the sun begins to set.