Roadtrip

When you drive up that mountain
caress its edges ever so slowly
languish in its elevations
past the byways, the narrow road one-ways

"An inch on either side," you said, "and I'll fall."

And that's how you drive me.
This is how you handle my curves.
You edge around and focus on
No passing zones
Solid double lines
Don't trespass the ways that move me.

Your big clunky truck has too many miles
The engine rumbles, weary.
Paint peels with each ride.

She's old and used. But mine was vandalized.
We wrack up the miles, go past service dates
and tune-ups.
We ignore the warnings when a car's about to die.

To risk a fall.
To endanger.
I'm in danger.
You called me dangerous once and I agree.
We're like cliff-sides in each other's minds.
Unbalanced precipices.
Unstable perches without safety rails or warning signs.

But you left to go up a hill, today.
To cleave through a mountain
when plateaus that run up and down the length of me--
My little corners and crannies
to reach the core of me
are all dead ends without outlets
A heavy risk involved to conquer me.

We live in scales.
To balance
To judge

To tip each other over
for stability

To slide us over an edge

To live by scales
is a motionless life.

Won't be a long drive, you said,
but it will be a tough one.