We travel in the off-season,
avoiding higher fares and congestion.
I long to be lost, you long
to be lonely; endless miles on endless
highways, empty beaches to throw sticks
a long way for imaginary dogs to recover. Your
father would have done the same; he encouraged
you to play as a child but you sat surly
on your towel, wanting to be back home
with your friends, just as now you want
to be without them.
“We are anonymous in prayer
but we are never without them.”
I don’t respond because I don’t pray and
don’t know how anonymous
prayers can be answered. I know better
than to strike when you are in this mood.
You wait in the car as I stand at the pump
looking at you disfigured by a mark
you made on the glass. You could be
anyone.
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