Highway: Michigan

Here from the field's edge we survey
The progress of the jaded. Mile
on mile of traffic from the town
Rides by, for at the end of the day
The time of workers is their own.

They jockey for position on
The strip reserved for passing only.
The drivers from production lines
Hold to advantage dearly won.
They toy with death and traffic fines.

Acceleration is their need:
A mania keeps them on the move
Until the toughest nerves are frayed.
They are prisoners of speed
Who flee in what their hands have made.

The pavement smokes when two cars meet,
and steel rips through conflicting steel.
We shiver at the siren's blast.
One driver, pinned beneath the seat,
Escapes the machine at last.

- Theodore Roethke