Road Trip

Outside
each road dances

trees shifting in their sleep

a vacant trailer sags on a ridge

peeling poster flutters from a flaking billboard

washed woods point dated directions

a river curls cautiously around a lost clump of weeds

spent stalks collapse under snow

countless whites and grays flash by

as shuffled card faces of buildings

brick, metal, cinder block, metal

noiseless movement past tinted windows

Inside
my hand in yours
you and I are still

We Met

We met
Tuesday night shopping

you were screaming at your screaming child

her long hoarse vowels
seeping through packages of chinese noodles
and ricocheting off tin cans of green beans

tired muscles of my eyes
resisting rolling

because she seems to know
you won't really slap her into next week

Leaving room for you and your frustration
I skipped your aisle
And didn't buy cranberries