"moonroof" poems
What day was it, exactly
when you asked?
I'd never thought
not that far out:
But.
I want to sit by the mountainside.
Hear the brook every morning-
gather up river stones
build up a path.
Drive an old chevy truck.
Red.
With radio made for blasting.
I want a moonroof and plenty
of stars in the sky.
I want to see faraway places.
Hear funny voices say funnier words.
I want to visit-then
I want to come home.
To you.
I want to cook like they do in NY
And garden
and pick pretty flowers.
To grow older
and watch
as my babies grow old.
I want to visit pyramids.
Buy trinkets at Parisian stores.
I want to see Venice-
make my way
thru watery streets.
But then
I want to come home.
To you.
To that mountain.
by that creekside.
Feed the squirrels and watch red robins.
Write under a tree.
I might want to go west-
Drive down highways fast
stay up in Vegas,
Late.
Wear sparkly dresses.
Drink pricey champagne
close to the bay. Any bay
will do.
I want to find light in the India bustle
and color in Ireland's green
and then,
I want to come home.
I want four corners and
I'd love seven wonders,
But still-
I'd want to come home.
To you.
Sahn
4/11/15
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
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
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
and i remember screaming in the passenger seat of your parents car
the street lamps on the culdesac spinning through the moonroof
the mirrors flashed bulbs in my eyes
inches from the curb you dropped me off then wished me good night
i walked past my mothers room
still dizzy from your driving
and blinded by the lights
and she quietly asked, 'did he kiss you?'
i lied and blushed a ‘no’
‘at least he was kind enough to drive you home’
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC