PASSENGER
The small town where we stopped
for one night years ago runs
in reverse now that I am driving the other way.
I think about
stopping, the grapes
on ice beside me, for a few minutes.
I will never pass this place again.
And it's past. And the night we walked barefoot
for a pizza, past.
I am mist, I am
his hair in your fingers, hers,
I am the sun on your face in that memory:
I am past.
I am passing.
Also, I'm writing this on the work computer and mine is (again!) iffy. Since tomorrow is my day off it might not be until Thursday when I will resume.
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