NO

Reverie

Yesterday I thought of dark houses with a single light on.

Today I thought of dark houses.

I'm trying to keep this car smelling like a rental

yet Gabriel sat in the passenger side blowing smoke into my radio.

He needed a ride. And I was eager

to get out of town, to get seven states away

because here we were:

young, simple soy bean fields in May,

sweat soaked necklines just starting to become comfortable.

I'd sniff his face when it was my turn to drive -

his hair red bricked and ashen

collected from all the chimneys we past. His green eyes so pasture filled

yet closed all the way through Ohio.

When we reached the Indiana border, I nudged him awake for piss coffee.

The gas station clerk, a fattened pear shaped Indian asks, what are you doing here.

The question took me. I said nothing,

maybe it was the way he asked,

what are you doing here.

Outside, we drank instant non-dairy creamer

with the windows rolled down.

Do you mind driving a little further, Gab asked.

Sure, I said. The entrance ramp back onto the highway

smelled like the wild onions

in my mother's backyard growing up.

I'd trap small beings in jars to that smell.

I'd watch them glow,

then tap violently on the glass when they stopped.