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an ode to our silent car rides

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.

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