Sunday Afternoon

Low on gas

she

Throws coat in back seat

Rolls down windows

Skips exit

It’s the first warm day of the year.

Drives slow,

Doesn’t care. 

Drives fast,

Doesn’t care.

Doesn’t sing along,

Just listens,

Just drives…

            drives…

Semi-trucks and

SUVs and

sports cars,

Any just driving?

            She wonders. 

            Breathes deeply. 

Twenty-three miles (one for each year)

And exit eighty-three

To nowhere.

Windy roads and

empty fields and

small-mountain hills.

Smells manure,

Doesn’t mind.

Feels familiar,

But different enough. 

Deserted cemetery.

Pulls in

Drives the circle

Sees familiar last names

and crucifixes and flowers. 

Sees a fat goat watching her,

chomping grass.

Feels no death

Feels sunlight

Feels good.

Low on gas

she

finds her own way home.