A summer driveSomewhere down the rural roadMore Like This
you push the button for the country station
and amongst the trees
the burning asphalt
a slow drawl pours lazily through the air.
Driver picks the music, you declare,
and I finish — Shotgun shuts his cakehole,
as sunlight shifts smoothly, white and whole,
and about our hair there slithers a breeze.
The fragrant smell of grass fresh mowed
blows toward us from a nameless location;
but it matters little — you drive without halt
and my mind fills with nameless elation.
And then you are most dear to me.
It is then, as miles swim past the window,
your warmth plays perfect against the afternoon;
your careless singing is out of tune,
but your shining laughter is the freest I know.
Faster and faster you drive us still,
cursing cyclists and thundering down hills;
snatches of leaves fly by, until
finally the road is all I see.
And then there is you, all you are and will be.