On the road to wherever, the sky opened

Cracked rain began to kiss the windshield

Spots of needles erased by the wipers

Like a mistake in a math problem

Every thirteen miles or so

Grayscale clouds and blackened trees

White highway lines and green highway signs

And me, who pulled in safely and put it in park

I had won and gone to fridge to find the bottles

Closing the windows just in time, but not all of them

The car mats stayed wet for days.


October one and deciduous explosions

Orange on brown on green flashing on brown

The highway songs droop lushless in a sway of autumn

This is the season of high boots, of open arms and open roads

Of crisp air, of jaywalking in the night

How many teeth do you have left?

Warm colors lead to the chills

And the cups of coffee and hearthy nature poetry

Attempt to wag the clouds away

The summer of left turns and stop signs

A wooden house, a triangle, a bow and arrow

The season of the young man’s youth

Wilting and cooking first, then finally falling

The man of youth still longs for mystery

But finds stark punctuation in the leafbags piled up along the curb

He drives a noisy wreck and siphons out the gas

So his machine pumps on, spins clean

Doesn’t have to do the dirty work

The season of brakelights, the season of fire hydrants

Exploding and freezing like eventual trees