Guilt, by the side of the road, flags us down,
hops in the back seat of the car, wants to know
where we’re going. We ask the rider
the same question. When it turns out we’re traveling
in mirrored ways we settle in for a while, listen
to the radio, a late night talk show in Texas
we’re afraid of but need anyway,
just to know what people are up to.
Turns out he’s from our home town, knows
people we do, likes the same ball clubs,
so when we stop, we buy him something—
a burger, a shake—then settle in again for the trip
across Nebraska, which will take the rest of the night.
Field air slides through the car windows,
a musical interlude fills the seats
then makes its way to the side of the road, click after click
sounding poles with the waves of our pulse.
I ask, “What’s that you were saying
about love?” He drones on about the Padres and the Indians,
Mariners and the Blue Jays. Just when
it starts to rain, he bends around
in his seat, leans forward and says, “I know you.”
“Yes,” I answer, “we worked together once
on the side of town you don’t go to
anymore.” The windows are broken there, he murmurs.
So the air gets in. So the birds can fly out.
--Scott Minar, 2004