Polaroid

Driving west, the sun slides beneath
horizon’s blanket. And as the moon
raises its droopy head,
time has become a Polaroid
in which I am able to pause.
The glowing tip of the cigarette
is all that is in focus.
I exhale, and refuse to become
a salty Lot’s wife
frozen by regret, doubt.
So in this Polaroid, I smile.
Because, outside the lines, I’m fast.
Air rushes between my fingers
windows down, my hair tries to fly
And yet I am anchored,
an Eiffel tower dangling from a keychain,
reminds me that worlds exist beyond this highway,
and that in both of these worlds
I’m infinite.