The red of the Jeep in front of me doesn’t
match the splendor of the maples turned
for fall. I am driving to Harlem in pouring
rain, trying not to be lulled by my wipers
or distracted by the blaze of autumn leaves,
thinking about a man I’m starting to love
and a man who is starting to love me.
They are not the same person. Of course,
they are not the same person. Our eyes
are marbles and our hearts are seaweed.
We are curvature and deviation, parallel,
hard to control, unstraightenoutable.
I know I will solve nothing on this journey
but I continue to try. I rehearse the lines
of this poem. The Jeep is now a trailer
is now a Prius is now a stream of blinking
red. Massachusetts, Connecticut, the Hutch
and the Merritt. There is nothing else to do
so I keep driving, pay the tolls, listen to
old episodes of This American Life and watch
the sky darken with my headlights on.