you confuse tar with asphalt

when he was young
he was
scorching, writhing tar--
the color of a leather coat,
the heart of a lazy smoke ring that melted
into a bar room’s rafters

he was
smeared imprints of tire treads
that read of illegal u-turns and impatient
swerving through multiple lanes

a cast-off strip of truck rubber
that trundled whimsically
by itself

but now

he is
the residual warmth of worn asphalt
and illusory walls that stretch into the sky
from painted yellow birthmothers’ arms

lines which summon him into being
and subsequently trap him
like a chalk-line séance circle

(and he wonders if he is any more real
than those ghosts summoned by gap-toothed children)

and though he may idly dream
of roaring defiance to a no-passing zone
and entertain the idea
of careening off the curb into twisted, dangerous uncertainty
he is resigned to matching pace

for now he is
black and white speed limits
no gray areas, no remainders
only steady mile markers on a one-way road
and a clearly marked, inevitable exit