The ride was slow
like brunch.
Supplementary to coffee,
a reason to still get up on weekends
if you don’t have a lawn
or a hobby.
Western Massachusetts
rolls beneath us like
the hunchback of the state
with clouds like heat
rising from the black.
You haven’t noticed
that you are back
where you were born
until we pass a familiar
grocer on the corner.
You tormented the neighbor
boys with toads.
How those summer days still
taste of lemonade
and earth,
and giving it your all.
A hand-print lingers
on the seat
once you have gone.
Clay once shaved in small
amounts from a vase of some kind
now deposited, if not lifted,
from the leather
like an anti-fossil.
I can’t bring myself to clean it.
I rub it like lipstick into
my cheek.
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