Driving lost in night rain far off,
doubling back down rutted, regretted roads,
over a small bridge of low lying trauma
from nowhere to somewhere even less anywhere,
windshield wipers teasing us but not making it better.
The little tunnel of light in our headlights
reminds us too much that we were born
with a sore, festering into certainty,
that our whole life is a long, slow mistake.
We don't seem to notice in the other seat
the Beloved, coloring all over the map,
murmuring, “Thanks for giving me a lift.
I don't care where we are.
I just like being with you.
What a gift.”
September 30, 2019