I tried to drive slow enough
so that Poetry could keep up,
but it seems I sped right past
the fog hanging in the valley 
and the butterfly flexing its 
wings atop the fresh roadkill. 
I suppose Poetry found an old
roadside motel for the night,
one whose diner serves coffee
that steams just right and leaves
a perfect stain on the napkin
scribbled with notes on how
the cook wields his spatula.