He is almost five
happily singing to himself
in the backseat
while I smile
into the rear view. He never sees
knuckles turn white, nor my foot
easing off the gas.
Wheels disregard, tug us
across dotted lines
the sign-our-names,
dots and dashes,
blips on a heart monitor,
S.O.S., MayDay, MayDay
Sonnez les matines!
I send up a silent prayer,
or flare to God, whomever
might be listening,
watch over us!
while seconds expand and contract
their own irregular heartbeat,
and risk shoves the well-planned aside.