I call him, he comes busy
he’s trying to reach me too / it is what they call a collision
I tell him to wait by that tree,
or next to the pharmacy
maybe across the street from last night’s door.
He’s usually nice, but sometimes
I stop him from calling me ma’am,
I think he blushes a little, maybe
lingering on my out of place hair strands.
We settle in, his eyes on the mirror, the road,
my mind weaving a tolerable reality
featuring ghosts of the past
he’s driving, but the destination is mine
and, in here, it is no secret, I don’t know where that goes.
In this hour, we are quite alike,
Him and I, we want the same things,
not to have to have this arrangement
not to have to wake up this early
or drive through the city with questions on our faces.
Of how our lives came to this,
Of ways in which we lack,
things that others seem to have
abundant, and if not, within their grasp.
In this hour, we wind through lanes
looking for directions by the light of the dawn
enough to reach a place where the rope
around the neck, hangs down like a pendant with a knot.