I can only write about driving.
About the feel of the pull of 290
under the worn tires of my too-light car.
Quick, glance to see the fishermen and hockey players
then turn back to to the road
as the car groans, shifting to climb up the hill.
I am 20 now
and living for the first time in a new state
though only when school is in session.
Now is the time to write trite stanzas about the town I grew up in.
I write about driving north on winding country roads
shooting through the intersection with the hot dog stand in the summer.
The reservoir glistens in the East
as I drive to my best friend’s new house
two towns over
by the abandoned railroad tracks they turned into a trail.
The road narrows dangerously
but I know this route by heart.
I have a habit of ending up here when I get lost.
I write about driving with my dad to the church parking lot.
The snow this year is piled by the entrance
taller than nearby roofs.
Many years ago I played soccer here with
the Colombian priest
and the boy who had a crush on me.
My brother hops in the car and we
peer around the snow mountain
before pulling out to go home.
I writing about spending the afternoon with my dad
driving up and down route 9.
A new “dog resort” is opening tucked behind some warehouses.
We crest the hill by the closed bookstore and get ready to make a quick u-turn.
There are six grocery stores in three miles. We hit two of them.
The Boston alt radio station fades in and out between traffic lights.
I will never remember the order of hills,
mixing up intersections and credit unions.
I spent a summer and a thousand Saturdays covering the same five miles.
I get in the left lane where I belong.