I wind the curves of suburbia:
the long way home, silent
streetlights and the spinning
black haze of mosquitoes and moths, trying
to find another sun.
I avoid the rough and tumble of highways.
The noise of the old red and blue.
How many drunks search for the short way home,
the straight path?
Most like to wait, ride the line.
Point A: polyester sheets and lipstick.
Point B: reclusive and in need of a shower.
Who wouldn’t wait for every stoplight,
stare into the neon drive-thru,
light the cigarette as if it might be your last.
The path they take
is the automatic transmission,
vinyl under the fingernails,
I like to keep the fog lights on,
edge up to the cliff of a green light.
I ride the dial of the radio, searching for a theme.
I’m the one
who will take the letters home,
buckled up in the back
listening to the rise and fall of tires–
an earlier version was previously published in Red Line Blues
issue#2 “Night Driving”