Poetry

Rush Hour

in the summer, we took the soft top off the jeep,
and sped down the barren, sun-enveloped highway.
the wind’s warm hands tangled my hair.
we were unburdened, and he radiant.

now the silence in the car is like the medicinal tang
that settles while winter begins to scratch her glacial
fingers up through the supple ground.

the heat from the vents seems to escape
through the glass to my right and disappear into the lurking,
chill air outside, not giving me reassuring warmth
like it’s supposed to.

the other cars on the road moderate our speed, forcing
us to look at the mostly naked trees that intimidate
him and me into a quivering silence––

maybe i could still feel the steamy air
that had smothered me months before like
a towel plucked fresh from the dryer
if i just change the radio station.

but all that comes through the speakers is static
nesting behind my eyes and lingering like the automobile
creek we drift down.

it’s as if the radio only caught a clear signal
in the muggy weather, playing tune after joyful tune
through the happy haze––
the music left with the humidity.

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