Stretch of Road

The freeway ends in a mile and a half. Cars veer, some slow it down to almost nothing. She, next to me and me, we stay straight, me barreling forward wondering if I could live on this road. She's talking to someone. I'm thinking about spurts of rest, misogyny, and if I will ever get the answers I need to make this stretch of road make sense. The fruit I sell has had some bites. I still find that trying to make rhyme or reason makes the day pass in unproductive fire. Ticking off big person bills minute by minute but it is as if they are plotting against me.