There’s the Katy Freeway. There is induced demand: 

a distinctly     77406-tinged

       entropy, of excess, futility, and there is me,

       driving to your house once again. 

          There’s the tollway    hanging halfway down the moon like a noose. 

        That moon— hauling the asphalt up like high tide, as though beckoning 

                        a speeding driver heavenward at 90 miles an hour, 

 complete with the toll tag scans I always 

  mistake for lightning.        There’s a reason 

         the route to your house is called an arterial road. I like the image of

                                             severing a connection         

                                       like W Grand Pkwy S, watching

a gnarled alphabet of Silverados and 

F-150’s spray like a severed jugular down 

                                   the feeder below.      If I took a bulldozer

                                   to us. If I carved out a city’s artery.  Back fenders,

                                   headlights splitting open like cresting waves on the 

                                   shoulder, the hot rock littered 

                                          with the brilliant remnants of two-ton red blood cells. 

And that street— pulling my lane into yours, stretching 

                                the road    and us    into an estimation. 

       I’ve memorized the shape 

                  of your suburb, what it looks like in your (our) zip code. 

Faster than I can seem to find 

anything else these days, I can pick out 

your cul-de-sac on a map. Yours

                             is the kind of curved way that ekes out a fate.                         

    I’m doomed—

         not like    death, or    crash on I-10 and Gessner, 

      but like    take my forty-four cents, I can’t wait the extra intersection.    Like there are 

      only so many red lights I can stomach 

                                               on my way to you.       Like   destination.