270
A night drive, somewhere on the coast.
There’s a ghost in the car, a noun waiting
not lost but far away, a plaything
or a thought stuck in my throat—
it takes so many bees to fill a hive.
I drive as if the road stripes are alive
tires tucked grim against the gravel, fifty-five
in a sixty, my feet on pedals of piles of leaves.
We park and let the windshield wear a teacup’s glaze,
no shy click of the wiper blade, no, we’re touching knees.
What part of me was cut for this fit, for your sighs
asleep in a coat pocket? Let’s wait for the storm
to drive itself home. We’re getting everywhere. You hold
an excellence in amber, a gold chamber wedged open, two
cells’ wince. I hope the boy goes farther than the play, plucks out
a round of bulbs to deliver Benedick, then ducks out
before the fourth act, plants them in rich soil, rubs
the furrows to a belly, sings in color and in code. We’re by
the side of the road, the bugs are gathering. You ask me
“What’s the point of decaf?” and I tell you
the game is rigged, stripped down to show the beams exposed,
there’s no true drip to lick quick wit into whatever. Decaf’s loose
as gold flake on foil, big like coffee but with all input cut
to a rose bone. Your cup’s gone cold, dense, a lime stone
turned and turned to thread or lighter stuff. No sense
in waking the dog, he’s a tired guru. The road map shows
long lines to home, nine months of red tape through
a series of mines, clicking up from ore to salt. Our car’s a rocket
stapled to a headstone, flowered in and idle. Somewhere
on the map are three dots: you, me, and a cinder under a bush.
My face a main course broke out in high beams. No more decaf,
give it up, burn the stuff—or else let steam from the real stuff
rattle the bones of your nose. Sniff up, inside you
there’s a knight generally dozing, no baby doll, his eye’s ridge
the crest. Look, no more clouds to storm the motor’s edge.
Clutch out, no rest.
