With a white-knuckle grip

and a hunched neck

craning for sights unseen,

she weaved the

sedan that screamed

“Single Mom”

through a pale mask of fog.

Her son

screeched misheard lyrics

from the backseat

to match the quieter melody

humming from the radio.

She bit her tongue,

for better or worse,

until the droning shrieks

grew shrill,

and a metallic taste

flooded her mouth.

She turned her head

and scolded him

for only

a fraction of a second,

just enough for

the softest exhale

of protest

to escape her son’s lips.

Then

the fog gave way

to two red taillights.