One
A Petrichor Poem
Rumble strips keep me from the median
head nodding and jerking
car beeping lane assist
saving me from oblivion.
Sober.
Tired.
Harvest moon on the speakers,
woodsmoke in my jacket collar.
Last night of the year.
Last chance.
Last hurrah
before
New beginnings,
New promises,
New hope,
first morning of the year.
No stars to be found.
Wet, whippy, sleet
pelts the windshield.
I am a lone driver
on the road home.
Crack the window
to keep me from fading.
January air wilts my eyes.
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Snapshot flashbacks as the lines
crest the hood of the car.
Maroon and black dress.
Smoky eyes.
Laughter at the long stares.
Hands resting and wrestling
in the shadow of a Christmas tree.
Vinyl silence as we settle in.
Meandering words
about conflict resolution
and the ick of bad kissing.
The hmmm as our lips part,
her hand pulls my neck.
Restraint, the currency
of respect as we pull back
and fall off to sleep.
I should go.
I could do this for hours.
Stay.
Fire cries against sooted glass.
Snow weeps and melts.
I hear the seconds on my watch.
Eyes match and dart.
I should go.
On my couch.
Under a blanket.
It’s late morning.
Day one.
I was in a car
that stayed on the road
pulled by the magic
of love in the midnights.
At the end of a road.
Horses move in their stalls.
A woman opens her eyes.
Small feet scuff wood floors.
Flickering light from the firebox.
An extra glass sits on a soapstone coaster.
She draws a card from an envelope.
Hay girl.
I have an imagination for these things.
These evenings.
My boots crunched snow on the red paint front porch.
Words exhumed from the hope of a man.
Driving down the road.
Eyes barely open.
Driving.
Almost home.
