In
June
We detoured down a dirt road,
you told me of growing up there
racing barefoot across gravel roads,
sea bass in moonlight,
when you fish in silence at night alone.
I’ll come find you in the big city
all the while I listened,
watched you steer - laid back,
a cigarette clung to your bottom lip,
your window half way up,
enough to allow
the innocence of wind across our faces,
but not enough
to sweep me some place magnificent.
Still, I rode with you
passing tall oak trees,
stretches of fields,
grass like ballerinas in cambre
then, small houses,
people on porches.
The stalled life of country summers.
Your hand,
on my bare knee
pulled me close,
you, everywhere,
a seemingly infinite road.