Drive

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.

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