I’m driving down River road
(which sits at the bottom of the levee,
how unbearably ominous when you can hear the river
but can’t see it)
I’m gripping this leather st
steering wheel
at each wind and curve.
Just listen
to the tires wallow down this smooth,
pretty black concrete,
the wind of the brake as I slow down
and the spurring of the engine
when my foot discovers the gas.
I will (on purpose) miss my turn
and let this little car keep on sliding
down this little road
it’s met six hundred times.
They are well acquainted.
My heart has thumped out of my chest
With thrill
with terror
With triumph
on this road.
It could ruin my life
will all the secrets it knows.
I’ll pull into a warehouse parking lot
and watch cars illuminate the grass
with their headlights,
while I shuffle through mental memorabilia,
playing each scene like a tape
that comes to life within the lanes.
What bad luck
insisted that I be a sucker for the sentimental?
