by June 29, 2013 0 comments

i remember, early friday morning is
your scraped knees
pushed through the driver’s seat
& my hair stuck in the headrest
(back before i cut it short).
we & no one else to keep us
from windows down and
heat high, fan on 4:
time measured in afternoon cartoons
moves no faster & all trees
blur from windows at parkway speeds.

i remember you, in savoring gasps
between gusts of wind & the clicks
when cassette tapes flip sides.
it’s those breaths, when you ask:

are we dust in brunch table sunlight?
to float & settle & float again
in coffee/tea with too much sugar,
& stick to the sides of the mug?

editors note:

Roadtrip deconstructions, asking hard questions; accepting no answers but what the wind blows through. Open window, open mind. – mh

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