Fine

Do you know how fast you were going?

No, not really.
I’d supposed I was cruising at perfectly normal,
but according to this moment
and the number stamped
on the ticket you’re about to slip me,
I guess I’d accelerated into extremes—
at least, maybe just a little.

It’s hard for me to see momentum
as a crime—
I mean, I’m only moving—
hard to believe the cop standing
stock-shockingly-still
just outside my car door
when he tells me I was out of control
(first of all: how could he know?),
that I’m in trouble
for my own protection,
that this limit was outlined
somehow to help me.

I want to tell him,
“Sorry, sir, I’ll pay the penalty,
but I disagree with your diagnosis of illegal.
Trust me, I had it covered,
and I was only ever speeding
to achieve more (or possibly enough)
for this left-lane highway society.
I was on my way to investing, you see,
and some deadline or friend
(because what’s the difference?)
has already claimed my every minute.
I’m just the kind that lives quickly,
and trust me— I’m fine.”

Afterwards, I’m rushing too much to realize
that I could use more inconveniences like him:
I need one speed trap set up
halfway down my hallway
and another one fixed as a chip
inside every device I own that’s wireless,
a tacky orange sign beside my desk
glowing grim with a statistic—
any percentage that’s less about death
than it is about the loss of life—
a siren that’s willing to wail
as shrieky as it takes to shake me
out of my automatic hyper-drive,

and a weaselly friend 
who demands payment
in the name of my own safety
every time I let anxiety
instead of presence set the pace.