First gear, clutch, reverse. A dirty rear window.
It is my dream about being able to drive.
In real life there are so many people boarding
the long-distance bus, a pause for the woman
in the wheelchair. The bus driver presses a button
and the stairs transmogrify into a ramp.
We lurch forward.
A beautiful boy with two
silver suitcases smiles at the next intersection.
We accelerate into the velvet pocket of midnight
the smell of warm tarseal lies under the hot hum of cicadas.
Forgive me, I whisper.
Whenever I say
goodbye I mean it two different ways.