“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say,
pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky,
I smile and nod, concentrating on the music

we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane,
pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost,
halfway there from Toronto

“driving makes me think,” I think to myself
and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III
and talking fades into the rearview mirror

black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me
I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane!
he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender

it washes in waves over you so palpably
I feel it crash on my shoulder -
your father passed away yesterday

rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette
I roll down mine and light up, too
our ritual – one feeding off the other

we’re driving to Cornwall, to family,
to mother, alone now among children
“what will you say to her?” I ask you silently

we’re driving to Cornwall
towards loss, towards hope
with a black Firebird close behind

I move the wheel slightly
to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane
the rear-view mirror catches the firebird

deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode
its contents in a little puff of vapour -
highway music



bonaventure saptel