Her Old Man Drives Me Home

 

Our car moves slowly,
trees whispering rain.
I keep my ear toward him
face toward the cool window,
mark each bony tree, its elbows
black against violet; exposed.

He holds the wheel — I feel him —
looks far, speaks near. So near.
As if he had a winking coin
for every hope that he destroyed.

He has a reason
for driving slowly
for whispering near in the rain
for making my awkward angles
into an exhausting tirade
against life and youth itself.

He sees my burning ear: and knows
my cool face is captured by the trees.
He has a reason for every
hope that he destroys.

 

© 1996 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved.


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