If she were a song,
no doubt she'd be on vinyl--
stuck in her old ways.

* * *

All too familiar
with the sharp dissonance of
a needle's cycle.

Loose coins sing like cheap nickel-plated wind chimes
in the side compartment as she slams
the car door behind her.
For half a second, I consider getting out after her--
following, so she can give me those petulant puppy dog pupils
she's perfected through persistant practice.
A better plan: I make a face at her back reminiscent of
three "na's" and a pair of "boo's."
As if somehow cosmically aware I've just hit my daily quota of immaturity,
she speaks.
"You know, I just find it funny h--"
but I'm already in reverse.

*

What is it about driving with nothing but stars and trees as companions
that makes a night cruise so much more thought provoking?
Could it be because I can finally hear myself think?
No. I always think out loud anyway.
Maybe it's because they actually seem to listen?
"****, you are way too high right now, my guy."
"Nah, I'm good, brody."
Okay. I don't even listen to myself;
why would nature be any different?
But there's something.
Picking up speed,
back pushing against the seat,
feeling every imperfection in the road through the chassis--
eyes peeled for parked patrol boys.
Making turns onto streets I have no business on.

If she were here, she'd be giving me one of her looks
instead of standing with her  head out the moonroof
as I would if I were passenger with someone driving this fast
in unfamiliar territory.

If she were here, she'd give me **** about the wind tangling her hair
like I won't use it as an excuse to run my fingers through it later.
If she were here, she'd give me **** about my music being
too loud in this minivan heavy neighborhood
like I won't use it as an example why we shouldn't be mad at kids
who do it to us twenty years from now once we've settled down.

If she were here, she'd be a voice of reason.
For whatever reason

Lately, you've become the last place my mind wanders before bed.
Why it would choose such a place is beyond me.

The moment time you find
the answers for which you search,
the question changes

There's an old forgotten cemetery
just through the woods we used to pretend was Narnia
when we were young.
Defaced and orphaned, it sleeps.
An early morning fog hovers
lazily atop browning blades of grass.

The headstones not repurposed into gravel and firewood by
bored teens read numbers that speaker much louder
than the names above.
1937-1939.
1943-1944.
1948-1953.

I can see it--
pink, chubby legs stuffed into tiny dress slacks;
soft eyelashes kissed for the last time
before the waves of dirt storm the beach
of a casket much too small to seem real.

*

I wonder if your mother knew
that this place would fade from memory.
That it would dry and shrivel from neglect and indifference.
That you would inspire poetry,
Rowland


*how many baby boomers never bloomed--
their escape from the womb punished too soon
by a God with whom no take backs isn't a rule?

Tell me something I've heard before...
convince me I'm not dreaming.
Pull me from that forgotten space way back on the top shelf
between the rapidly growing families of dust
and those god awful boxes of stuffing you're saving for Thanksgiving

Lying here--
Can I look at your face while you search my chest for those twin kicks?
I want to memorize every shade in your iris
and color them by number in my head from memory
in case I ever lose the originals

You tell me all you want in life is consistency,
so I'll continue to tell you the lies you want to hear.
I can still feel your palm's pressure on my body;
have you found my heartbeat yet?

the mane of countless
flowers, mutilated in
hopes of finding truth