I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

Snowflakes pelted my car's windshield, the windows fog, it was a cold night and I was

caught in a winter storm. After 20 minutes of inching along, impatiently I pulled into

the passing lane and sped by the other vehicles. My eyes focused on the immediate road ahead,

the wake of snow lightened and although the salt truck had not yet touched the outside

lane filling with ice and slush, I sped up even more, anxious to get home. That's when

the car fish-tailed. I panicked and careened into a metal mile marker. The car was half

on the road and half in a ditch. I looked out the passenger window. An 18-wheeler barreled

toward me. Its lights flashed. The truck driver honked his loud horn.

As if an invisible set of hands were pushing, my car eased further into the ditch just in time to

be out of the truck's way. Then I sat for a long while contemplating my near fate.

Cars, indeed, all tools of progress guarantee safety. Say, we are less vulnerable to harm.

Yet, I fell to heed the long convoy of hazard lights. I should have remained as cautious

as the other drivers. Today's poem reminds us that, despite the wonders of engineering,

our lives are fragile. It suggests that maybe we should avoid the false protection

our modern age promises. That maybe we should live patiently and slowly within the bounds

of ourselves. How long could I have been waitless by Colin Channer?

After the smooth up pull, the car dove fish efficient in the tractor trailer's wake.

By then, the thick will cuts had tapered down the long, curved grade than vanished,

leaving undulations in the drifts. All the way from Montreal, through French toned Vermont,

weed held to, mostly all alone. Through nighttime Massachusetts, the Berkshires

rhythmic now, the rise and fall of roadways, lung-like, up and down, the black outside,

...