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I drove the interstate black.
by Bob ArcaniaI drove the interstate black
in the fast lane always
while you read poetry aloud
to me. Or else it is you-
your voice-you like to hear
as the windsoaked fields
pass the same days by us.
It is a poem about you
that a boy wrote- and you smile
to yourself just in your
chest where you place your hand
as you think about poetry.
There is an old maple
that curls about your shoulders.
I see it through the window-
through the bird shit since
I park my car beneath a tired
crabapple tree that is always
forever and dully angry.
Like old walnuts words form
in your childmouth,
resting and dipping chocolate.
You want to meet my mother
to tell her how like me she is,
and that I came from her womb.
I couldnt help it anymore
than I could help the way
your legs didnt cross.
Or how you overdressed
for my friends wedding.
We laughed at the way country
music played and nobody danced-
to it or to the poetry that a boy
wrote for you only days before. 04/26/2007 Author's Note: It was three and a half hours in a car and she slept for maybe twenty minutes.
Posted on 04/26/2007
Copyright © 2025 Bob Arcania
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