sunlight illuminates particles of floating dust
humdrum of the tires spinning on concrete
I like our pattern: you drive and I’m in the passenger seat
I don’t mind the vehicle, give me one of rust
my thumb speaks louder than our voices as it writes on your palm, “it’s you”
no obligation, no destination, no words, no curfew
your finger taps the steering wheel while I sit and listen
ages down the road, will your hand still hold mine — will you keep our tradition?
the hush of the car shouts, “I want you here!”
and boy, oh boy, I want to be, dear
let’s sit here and drive in silence
let those tires spin, and I’ll quietly rest in your sweet cadence.