Jesus is love but never more so
than on the highway, when he delivers us
from mid-size sedans unto our destinations.

When he absolves us of our emissions.
I want an anti-lock, all-weather Christ
to emerge after three days in the median.

Believer, evangelism requires a little asphalt,
a little balm for the road rage of the travelers
who passed their injured neighbor before

the Good Samaritan gave roadside assistance.
I need a Ford-tough Savior to perform
certain miracles: pay the tolls in their wicked plazas,

abolish the speed traps in the temple,
truck courageous into eternal sunrise.
I want Hot Rod Yahweh, Jr. to rev the engine

of my love for fellow motorists,
a love I forget a little more with each on-ramp,
every parking lot, any time someone

putters along at 53 on an Interstate.
May he bless me, Turnpike Christ, as he raises
his hands to embrace the long handles of the chopper.

May he anoint me in motor oil, forgive me
for buying Japanese. May he learn to love
me again after I’ve taken his name in vain

or wished the wreck upon the tailgater,
may he make faith easy as a decal
and carry me past the overpasses,

one set of tread marks when there should
have been two, screeching safely to halt.