Drive Home
Today, I was driving home to you.
Today, evening commute on the highway,
winter’s sun already darkening a sunset
a deepening rose over our town
I was driving home to you
as I did two years ago,
I was already anticipating our conversation,
how I would tell you of my day,
of the morning staff meeting and Deb’s leaving
and the afternoon’ doctor appointment
and how I hate change
And of how my car needs a brake job
& your car needs its winter tires.
I knew the words you would say
as you finished the last preparations of dinner.
You said them two years ago
or something similar.
I could smell you in the new van.
My hand felt how yours would curve
around it, your thumb a brush across the palm.
And then, two miles out ofKeizer ,
I remembered.
Ariel
Nov 26, 2012
Today, evening commute on the highway,
winter’s sun already darkening a sunset
a deepening rose over our town
I was driving home to you
as I did two years ago,
I was already anticipating our conversation,
how I would tell you of my day,
of the morning staff meeting and Deb’s leaving
and the afternoon’ doctor appointment
and how I hate change
And of how my car needs a brake job
& your car needs its winter tires.
I knew the words you would say
as you finished the last preparations of dinner.
You said them two years ago
or something similar.
I could smell you in the new van.
My hand felt how yours would curve
around it, your thumb a brush across the palm.
And then, two miles out of
Two years ago, I came home to you.
But not since. Ariel
Nov 26, 2012
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