What’s it like there, where you are?
The stiff air chokes my thoughts.
I hate stepping barefoot on the burning, damp ground—
afternoon rain;
forgetting my sandals, I sidewalk hop.
You’re doing 15, stuck behind a tractor,
tapping thumbs to the wheel and tracing
the dust on your dashboard.
Thoughts of me are under the seat,
between empty bottles and stray CD jackets.
I would tell you to pass him
but you’d ask, “Where do we have to be right now?”
So many places, but right here feels good, too.
whyareyouyelling.com 