Drive

We drive
to where we are needed.
These cars,
they deliver us
alone
or with the ones we love,
to places
of small miracles ~
to a conversation
that unwinds your memory
on the spool
of an evening,
to a triangle of peak standing black
against the purple dusk
like a secret,
to a pearl wire of headlights,
of which you are now one,
with your music
and your thoughts
and your bags packed with
Monday’s laundry
as you drive toward the sea of city,
or to the river,
one hand out the window,
one hand on the wheel.

Minnesota Creek

Up past Lily Lane,
winter tires sink deep
into January

mud, and the road
gets twisty
beneath the width

of a silver truck.
Fields tattooed
with the feet

of ruddy cattle
give way to high
country ranchland,

and we drive
over sparkling passes
and into the sky,

into the cold, clean air
like the wild geese,
honest and free,

living our lives
like this
on a Saturday,

flying toward sunlight
and into
the great blue.

The Last Drive

We drove in that car,
a rental, midsize,
you and I

past palm trees
and the ocean waving
like goodbyes

and grocery bags flying
in traffic, plastic spirals
in the sky.

The highway
was fast, faster
than your body had obliged

in many months
until this drive
and so I

asked,
Is it
fast?

Yes,
very,
your reply,

and you asked,
Can’t we just keep driving
and driving

forever?
My answer
made you smile

and we were quiet
then for quite
some time.