I can feel the neurons

like racing stripes

peripheral to each

hemisphere of my mind,

pulsing, circuit electrons

firing down from back to front

lining like drag racers down

the insides of my morning skull,

pulling me, pulling me

forward, onward, towards

my next so desirous move.

I can feel the motor of my mind

running on the ignition of dopamine,

rewarding me for my positive action

to keep this, this, this thing

moving, moving along.

It’s not compulsive. Braking, breaking

all of yesterday. It’s not harmful,

revving, not revving — idle,

idling that low background hum

to say, “Ready. When you are.”

But it’s ready. It’s engines on,

it’s stuck in gear,

it’s clutch engaged

it’s eager fear

that when you ease on off

to re-engage

the immediacy of

more inches made

towards the doubt I have,

but the joy so felt

to drive on toward

what life has dealt.

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