As I sit behind the wheel, knuckles pink and white, fingers clenched.
I roll my windows down,
the August night warm breeze flows in
thick, humid, heavy,
with the sweet smell of the Pacific.
I plow through the midnight fog,
To the lyrics of songs which I know well,
I gasp for breath.
The song ends,
my tears fade, to which the very ode
I dedicated my frustration to.
As I sit behind the wheel, driving
eighty miles an hour on Pacific Coast Drive, one feeling resonates in harmony
through all my bones-
liberation from lockdown
liberation from myself.