Sometimes, fear comes in a white car.
Sometimes, fear blinds you with its headlights.
Sometimes, fear comes to a halt one inch before your knees.
Sometimes, fear chases you through residential roads at night:
The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates.
Sometimes, fear has its engines fade
Way before the mornings come.
Sometimes, when the sun lights up
The bumps, the willow trees, the locked-up gates,
You still turn your head and think
There are too many white cars out there.