Joyride

April 22, 2011 § Leave a comment

You might want to go for a quick spin,
winding through steep mountain streets,
or speeding across the empty plains,
cold highways like haunted aisles
between two retired points.

Roll down your window and let the air
dry your mouth.
Do you hear the gravel crunching
beneath the tires?
Are you driving because of sadness?
Anger? Loneliness?
Or is it just one of those nights
when all the lights are a little brighter,
and the tired colors of the world
are all a little sharper,
and you’ve never felt
so alive?

Not everyone you love will grow old,
and whether this is a tragedy
or a kind of salvation
depends on what kind of gasoline you buy.
A red car means turn around.
A ten-wheeler truck means
she never really loved you.

Maybe there’s something good on the radio?
But on nights like this (when there is
nothing to hold),
an amazing new song you don’t know the words to
is like a beautiful person you can’t call by name,
and all you want to do
is sing a song you pretended to forget,
dial a number you can’t remember.

But where are you going? Towards or away from home?
Does it matter? Speed blurs.
Trees are people are posts are houses are cemeteries.
Does this drive mean anything at all?

Fasten your seatbelt.
You could be the sign
someone else is waiting for.

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