MPH

sixty-five

on the freeway to

meet you. Reluctant,

I guess - careful.

I didn’t want anything to

go wrong, but I went

seventy-five

the next time ’cause

I knew nothing could. Nothing

really could.

fifteen

together, picking out

a house for us, for

your parents, for

our kids,

slow stops and

quick lips, hungry

eyes.

ninety

when there’s a

good song on. Sometimes,

it’s enough -

the way the buzz of the radio

makes the road stutter, makes

us into earthquakes, but I know

one day we’ll get

to

zero

when we find the house

we want. We’ll get

back to

eighty

when our kids

are late to

school because we

insist on eating

together, and

ninety

when our kids are sick and

throwing up at school

and we’re too far away to help,

but close enough to feel it.

one-hundred

when our parents are in

the hospital, or when

we are.

ten

when we’re in

a funeral procession

and our hands mean more

than stoplights. Our eyes

are always green.

fifty-five

when we’re old together,

flapping pink gums and

dangling nose hairs,

our lives in our wallets,

but we’ve got no money.

Balding heads and spotty hands,

making fun of each other’s wrinkles, then

zero.