I have spent eighteen summers with you,
five without.
Through this one, we’ve reacquainted ourselves
under the same roof we once lived in.
You were six.
I, eleven.
You’ve inherited
my little bug of a vehicle,
its interior forever stained
by the stench of coffee and pot.
You’re in the driver’s seat now,
and i am the co-pilot.
The windows rolled down,
as the wind catches our conversations
concerning horseshit insurance policies,
workplace politics,
suicidal ideations,
chronic pain, and
a man lost in Brazil.
The breeze gobbles them whole, and spits them into the night.