Aluminum foil squeezes a treat whose heat
warms my back through the knapsack.
My friends and I, we climb, hoping we’ll find
a place to fill our stomachs and rest our minds

When we see it we know.
A patch of rock entirely exposed
overlooking the canyon where our voices echo.
Once our feet are suspended over the edge
high above the trees, I unzip my pack.
And the beauty deserves all my attention,
but my eyes are lost in another dimension,
distracted by a perfect breakfast burrito
one slip away, from unraveling in the chasm below.

The bus driver sits alert
as he steers down the streets.
The clock tics,
the city shifts,
and he knows every storefront,
and he doesn't miss a stop--
although he's always slightly late
for the schedule that has bound
this college town.

The blue-speckled seat cradles me,
forehead against a grimy window.
I radiate heat against cold glass
and wipe away the fog.
Squinting I read the names of foreign signs
but my heavy eyelids flutter.

The bus driver sits stiff in his chair
but I am melting in my seat
which is now made of green leather-
and I am 11 years old.
The other kids are gone now,
for it's almost the end
of an hour and a half long route.
It's just me left, on the seat,
my legs extended across the aisle.
My eyes may be closed,
but I know every turn.

The crackle of the loudspeaker
challenges the traffic noise
that has become my silence.
"Anybody still on the bus?"
I sit upright and wave my hands
so that Bob can turn the bus on 16th street
to take me home.

It is purple sunrise mornings
the fog so thick it slithers
through the net mesh of our tent
and fills my cotton sweater
which still smells like the bonfire
that flickered between us last night
like the stars that wished me goodnight.

If only that fire could warm me every night
and I could always see the stars before
those purple sunrise mornings

could we eat oatmeal
in my dorm room again
waiting for it to cool
so the green apple doesn't
burn our tongues

we don’t always fill the silence
but i’m okay with
awkward chewing and sipping
of slow coffee mornings
as long as your words
fill the air not my screen

We were unknowingly stuck at a broken stoplight as I was watching you dramatically mouth the words to Use Somebody by Kings of Leon. I was cracking up in the passenger seat but all of a sudden the song changes and I'm wondering why the light is still red.

We brush it aside and listen to the next song while paying close attention to the stoplight cycles.

The third song comes on and at this point everyone is aware something is up. We look around for that line up of cars and sure enough.
Cars from behind are turning around and cars in the front of us take the safe right turn instead.

It was funny.

The way all the cars reacted at the same time. As if a plane with a banner was in the sky saying: THIS LIGHT IS NOT FUNCTIONING.

All this to say that sometimes, if not always, humans are secretly on the same wavelength.

You are my favorite passenger
my driver through tired eyes

You are my Nebraska rest stop lover
and the morning kiss in the tent.

You make my lips curl to a smile
and dance along your face.

You are the lime in my corona
and the clank to my bottle.

You are not my smores poptart
more like my layered dip

You're my backseat snoozer
and my cutest cuddle duddle

My late night fisherman
and my serving counterpart

You're my badlands baby cakes

You fill up my heart

You fill up my heart

In the back kitchen you'll find
two boys scrubbing dishes.
One loud mouthed and lanky;
the other stout with broken English.

Amongst soap suds and grime,
clothed in long black aprons,
these two teens share a bond
stronger than mugs of ceramic.

Though the mason jars may chip
and hot dinner plates burn their fingers,
minimum wage is the thing
that keeps this quirky pair together.

And they dance around the kitchen
in those slip resistant sketchers
balancing bowls, pots, and pans.
Graceful as expert choreographers.