Cruisin’ with Rumi

On a bone cold February afternoon,
23 miles from home,
in a Japanese car leased three months ago,
I listen to Rumi,
800 years gone from
praising everything that breathed.

Lights are flashing everywhere,
especially behind me,
not white like those that lit up Rumi’s eyes,
no, more like red — the kind that signal stop and oops and
maybe I should slow down and pull over.

Unconcerned is Rumi on the 5-CD player,
his monologue of love making perfect sense,
as I notice a large man of the law approaching
and asking for my license.

He stands tall by my door
and beckons me to roll down my window,
announcing, like a small town accountant
wishing he was home for lunch with his wife,
my speed,
which he informs me is twenty over the limit,
Rumi still holding forth
beneath an ancient Persian moon.