Each pothole and crack on the road
makes us rise and fall in unison
like we’re on one of the great ocean liners of the 30’s.
Sitting side by side, you hold my hand.
Looking forward, looking for what?
The awkward glances of the other passengers
always grates me after a while,
but you smile at me.
You call it being driven.
Who can say no to the gleam in your eyes when you’re
Trying to convince them?
People arrive, depart, sit or stand,
they all strain to look ahead,
worried a momentary lapse will make
them miss the stop and find themselves
in a wholly unknown part of the world.
I wonder about their lives, what their
middle name is and if they think it is being driven.
I read the mini-billboards outside
and you grip my hand tighter
Whenever you see another couple on the street.
Rain or shine we peer out
with childish wonder.
The stores, houses, they are becoming familiar.
Even though we could know the names of stores
from miles away, we’ve never been in them.
No one signals the driver to stop at our corner like usual so
I do and you lean against me.
“This is us,” I say and you nod with a smile.

© 2011 James L. Carey