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Friday the 13th on Interstate 8
ruby
red turned
out merely pink
one's hunger if
not starvation
held
drive
time equaled
thought time plus
the scenery blond-
tinged matched
road
map
blurred with
granularity the seeds
about to leave
just pock
marks
at the table he said grace
it was just a sandwich
just a salad
served in a booth
we were undivided
from our thoughts
our present held our past
irresponsible for what
we were that day he looked
as young as change left on
the ground we spoke about
grandfather's birthday
same day as America's
steam engine we would ride
around the yard before
potato salad friend chicken cole slaw
root beer fiddle music
tin tones of the clanky
upright piano sour the way
that church chimes always
sound I thought his eyes
looked maybe twenty-five
with innocence that comes with
believing loving anything
unchecked on purpose over years
not(e)worthy
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