Eugene's out driving, out joyriding,
that January Sunday eve
to convince himself he isn't hiding,
or giving family a reprieve.
It's not for brooding; it's for fun,
the speeding, streaking metal ton
under his unflawed direction,
controlled and diamond-strong perfection.
Of course he knows what's coming next;
the road is clear in his retention,
so what's it matter if his attention
begins to drift.  He gets a text.
It warrants an express reply,
And he'll hear the minds of any nearby.