almost driving

i took an old highway tonight

through evergreen and scotch broom

one of those quaint coastal roads

that weave in and out of little

towns like mist and vernonia

I drove to escape my boredom

and though it never worked before

escape is a heavy metal in my blood

fueled by boxes of guilt

i piled inside the trunk

enough to last the winter

if i could keep myself driving

in florida the back roads 

smell of jasmine and oranges

in oregon it's douglas fir and rain

the sliver of moon didn't light the sky

but it was a sign nonetheless

until it rotated behind me

other signs were rusting in the rain

as i snaked my way through

horny mountains

i took my music player

from a soft denim sack

and played the songlist i made

the day before i left

bashung and bashung again

for i knew he would sing about the pain

that i dared not verbalize
swallowing two pills against its swell

they made me work
the gas pedal and the brake

i was driving toward a new life

a little hideaway

on the side of a cliff

where each day i could decide

whether to jump or to live

where a lamp might be lit

and words added to it

but my little drive was never

about writing poems

there would be no little house

no perfect moon

no ocean lookout

no final requests for

whale crossings or bouillabasse
only split second decisions

it was about turning stoically around

and finding my way home

unloading the guilt boxes (again)

turning on the television

and awaiting a conventional death

like all ghost dolls

i once knew how to drive
i was going places

until malady came and stole my brain

left me bored and in pain

but like a cruel joke

left the car in the driveway