The town is all circles, all overlapping at the Harpeth. Uncharted state parks, dirt roads to construction sites. Unfinished subdivisions. We just wanted to frighten ourselves; we just wanted the myth to work. But I think only you ended up scared. The best view of this town is yours as long as the car's idling in the cul-de-sac and you're parading between strangers' yards. And how many hours parked in peripheries, drinking milkshakes and thinking of family? How many nights awake in other people's attics, listening for trains to pass and never knowing just where? This is a different kind of love poem.
2
We brushed our teeth in the back of a steeple downtown. The parking meters flashed red. The organist wouldn't start for an hour. The congregation wouldn't show for another. You're still in love with the boy who slept in the back seat.
We lost the car in the French Quarter. Metermaids in bulky jackets were getting ornery�96 at 3pm, and cloudless. We rushed at every second-story windowbox air conditioner, held out our collars and rinsed our clammy necks.
3
The only room left in Gallup was smoking. At thirty dollars and four AM, we'll take it. We skipped from bed to bed, knees haloed by the marquee of the Days Inn across the street, and you threw books when I kicked the headboard against the wall.
In the morning your face smelled like someone else's menthols. I'd left mascara on the pillow and a cheap Bible under it. And I know the way you tie your shoes and work the toothpaste, the angles you take to your molars. We brushed our teeth together in silence.
4
A night in Oak Creek Canyon, tent pitched next to an RV.
"Turn the flashlight off soon. I'm tired."
"Let me finish this chapter."
"I'm tired."
"You're in a bad mood."
Television sitcoms next door. "Let's get to the coast soon."
5
They're tearing the hell out of Albuquerque's roads. The entrance ramps are all unmarked. At an unlit intersection by a chiropractor's office, a drunk hooker named Barbara jumped in the car, yelled something in Spanish about a stolen truck. At the Chevron we bought three cups of coffee and called the cops, but she was gone before they got there. The sun wasn't up yet. It was by the time we'd made it to Clive's Corners. The sky pale and portentous til we hit Amarillo at ten. The mesquite could have been graced with snow. We named her Barbara in Arkansas.
6
You shake your head as a Gravely pauses for a flock of sheep. This town thrives on speeding tickets and double-wide churches. Your mother is working wonders at home with cans of beans, but you�re still skeptical. �The fucking Midwest,� you mutter. It�s no wonder. We�re passing the grammar school; the playground�s packed. You tap on the window: �That�s where I always got beaten up.� You look bored.
7
We move so slowly. We�re grinding to a halt, or maybe we�re just learning to notice. When I wake up at ten to the cats clawing the bedspread, you�re gone. So�re your shoes. But I know your habits. I wipe my feet on the doormat and turn the knob slowly. Outside, you�re prostrate on the porch swing. You make room. We don�t speak. We just hunch our shoulders til noon and wink back at the house across the street.
8
In a suburban bungalow in Toronto you'll keep writing our history. You�ll remember well; you�ll remember what never happened best. Somebody who's in on the joke. Next year we will make the same mistakes. We will have made it up, all of it. Every detour past every broken bridge. Every free doughnut in the lobby at nine. Every pine needle in the Santa Fe gravel. Every town named after God. I don't remember how we ended up anywhere, or why. It is all in knowing what doesn't matter.
9
You begin: "H'ney�"
"Dear, I know."
"No, h'ney�" You reach for my wrist. You're probably going to cry. I reach back.
"Honey, I know."
But you know that already, even though it takes you half a sentence to remember. I tuck the blanket around your feet and bring you water. This poem doesn't feel like nine pages.
10
I will take a boat to Japan. It will take weeks. Months, maybe. At Osaka I will wave a silk handkerchief, and you will spot my blonde head on the main deck. Swashbuckling men with excellent English will flank your figure on the shore. As long as I'm here they'll sleep on the couches.