I went there without you.
Long drives aren't too long
if you imagine you are on a subway car
in New York City, sitting next to
a lady who smells like cauliflower
and a hint of grief, who tells you
that it's not as dark as you think
it is, Sugar, because you're the one
covering the light.

To which you may respond
but I am not seated!
I am floating!  All around
me in empty space is
empty space and no
light can pierce it!

To which she responds with a
chuckle and an offering of
licorice gum, which you
respectfully decline
because the taste reminds you of
your grandma, who passed away
in March as she slept
(BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH)
and left your mother weeping
at the front door,
hoping she'd come visit again.

To which the rest of the car
bursts into a danse macabre;
a movement over the grave and
into a place much colder than
underground.  They, The Wholehearted,
sway with their bones rattling
in harmony until they clatter
to the floor as marrow meets metal -

then the headlights
jolt you here again,
and you realize that
hundreds of miles
of lonely road await you.

I can measure my life in lonely roads.