Just after three in the afternoon, and car after car, pickup by pickup,
the end of a factory shift merges into the traffic, like teeth on one side
of a long zipper fitting themselves into the teeth on the other, while an
incoming passenger flight, low to the ground, casts a brief, howling
shadow over the highway, picking out only one car from the others,
flying a flicker of dusk through the driver’s side window, out
through the passenger side, a dusty blue Chevy Camaro with no plates,
and a hand-lettered sign duct-taped in the rear window: IN TRANSIT,
the driver, too briefly brushed by the breath of the shadow to feel it,
drapes a wrist over the wheel, a lit cigarette in her fingers, leans over
to peer in the mirror, then steps on it, fitting herself into her place in it all.