Driving

Sometimes memories pop up,

emerging from lapis and azure,

like Margaret telling me about her boyfriend’s apartment

in an old house

with hardwood floors,

or that time I got a speeding ticket in Statesboro

when my parents thought I was at a friend’s house,

or the one I talked my way out of on Folly Road

with Tripp Ellis, hissing at him to keep his fucking mouth shut

as the cop approached my door.

Today, on my way to campus, I was behind a white car,

right bumper torn loose, hanging,

flapping in the breeze

without a care in the world.