I panic in the back seats of cars in winter.
I can't count the highway lines through blowing snow.
and blizzards erase the telling dip of telephone wires.
I rescue the world from chaos with the quadruple tap of my finger.
I mete out order.
I touch my leg, play the record thump of a train on tracks in my mind,
and feel a tumbler fall into place.
There's a lock being opened in an invisible door,
as though I could exit through the back of a secret room,
fall down a rabbit hole,
and be repatriated by a tornado.
Things are safer on the other side once you've found the key.
The numbers and intuitive balance required
of laces and highway lines and handles on doors
knock me along the rhythm of survival,
and my car won't crash.