Parapet

In the night's drive there are tunnels that one can only travel alone. Honest, directional ingenuity. You call in your solid independence and recall the previous hours (years) when you were similarly freed of those who otherwise stunted your enthusiasm. Honor spotted like an old hat (found new) at the side of the road. You perk up passing by the familiar. 

You are singing and the radio isn't even on. Yet you recall every single, soft lyric. Every drum solo. Hands thrumming. Newly you, graduated from one tier of slightly numb and overdriven to no distinguishable deadlines tail-gaiting you now in the night between dry martini stirred with Spanish tapas and a room full of genuinely enraptured, listening. Poetry and snowy photographs; and children 

who invite you to their lilac bordered secret sunset place on the roof where the tar paper is peeling back. Offering you silver foil cupcake liners cradling chocolates and pretzels, and there's a royal lawn chair straddling the parapet reserved just for you. Safety net of air.

You are explorer and explored. Refreshment and the invisible irreverent. No one in this vehicle but you. No money, no embarrassment, nothing to proof or to read. No other details but this steering wheel as black air creases smooth with headlights streaming, and the sparse all night way-stations glint off your rear view.