She beside me, we
listen to cricket gossip
I, driving, write this poem:
The Kerhonkson roads
have a smell in late summer
At 62 Farenheit, and 70% humidity,
They smell of old wood houses
and
wet green roadsides
ancient trees with porous bark
Occasionally, skunk
(a smell I like.)
My t-shirt sleeve grows wet by the open window, and
slow motion moths change direction before the windshield
white wings blue in dashboard light
We round a bend where 3 local boys died
truck split in half on a telephone pole
(the newest ghosts of Samsonville Road)
I hold the wheel a little tighter, we're almost home
"There's a pickup behind us, better signal early, so he doesn't rear end us"
-my practical wife pulls me out of my own head
Inside now, "remember to put the ice cream away before you sit down to write"
she says as she
disappears down the hall.
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