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by David Kitchel We're in the backseat now, Four hundred miles out of the mountains, The other couple up front, driving us Down the same road We've followed for hours. My head's in her lap-- Her throat almost purple As she watches the sunset. Once, when we were at school, She looked up at the sun And showed that ridged softness Of her underchin and I knew We'd be together. I know better, now, than to ask her What she's thinking, but we're together, Speeding along through Memphis, The apricot-hued neons blinking on, Strobing by, alternately lighting Then shadowing her face. |