It is already dark, daylight is done
heat blows and her face is warm.
It is cold outside. The car moves ahead
on tires moving slow
for eyes that feel sleep
entering, coming quick.
A big house does not heat up quickly
Daylight is done, the workday is done -
but five or four hours till sleep
reading, thinking, waiting for the house too warm.
Her breathing, now, is heavy and slow
She is willing her eyes to focus ahead.
The sky is dark, the exit is two ahead
and the tunnel of trees zoom by, quickly
and how can time be this slow?
The wind whistling the windows, the drive not done
The house will not be warm
It had been closed, empty, asleep.
Now, in a car she fights sleep
Later in bed, the next day in her mind looming ahead
another day to leave sleep and a warm bed
another night passed too quickly
passing, speeding like the ride done,
sleep will come too slow
Her foot pressed down, this journey is slow
in the car where she fights sleep
on heated seats, her workday done
the next exit ahead
hand gripping the wheel, exit come quickly
the car is too warm
A bath, dinner, then maybe the house will be warm
heating up steady and slow
leisure time will pass too quickly
think about the night ahead
where work is erased, forgotten, lost, done.
(I wrote winter commute a long time ago for a poetry course. It was my attempt at a particular poetry form called a Sestina, which involves a pattern using the last words of each line. I have tried to rework it a few times, but it still read likes a first draft. Suggestions and criticism are welcomed. :-)