“Adult” feels closed in, as if spontaneity must be set aside
for proper planning, a perfect shade of blue that never falters.
I'd rather grow up on a song and call it love,
let its shape evolve with every understanding.
We're passing a garage sale somewhere in the US,
bits of a family's history laid out on green tarps
beneath late afternoon sun, the vibrating kind,
its light bouncing off passing car roofs,
greening trees, pleasing children unaware.
My husband is drawn to browse.
I look back down at the screen in my lap
grateful he keeps driving west,
think vaguely of the hours purging last summer,
our own lawn tarps covered in low-priced,
well-used gifts, thoughtful and thoughtless purchases
proved useful, empty floors freshly Swiffered,
bare walls, clean cabinets, our foot steps echoing
up and down double-checked walkways
before we locked the front door for the last time.
The open road offers its own challenges,
a vast space in which to listen to years gone by,
friendships we forget to connect to the future
and regret for such carelessness, a vague familiar
created by industry but nothing to memorize
as daily outside of our small traveling setup,
and a shimmering quiet asking us to fill it
with acted-on good intentions,
like singing with the family more,
writing now that time has opened,
and being awake for every sunrise,
knowing the long day stretches out,
waiting to see if we will keep our word.