Wednesday, December 09, 2020

Radio off, we drive in silence 
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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