Rocinante’s Secrets

The worn grips where I held you tightly,
through foul winds or gentle breezes;
the subtle change in color there, pleases –
where hills become valleys resting in those old wraps.

Every scratch, no matter the size,
when I carried you impatiently from place to place,
or tangled with you imperfectly at my own disgrace,
are hints at the strength beneath your skin.

The dirt that hides in strange corners,
the oil, the grease, the wires, the gears,
sometimes too much, or too little are my fears,
that the care I can give you is not enough.

The way the two of us consort,
inspiring the earth to move, the wind to blow,
and in that ambiance becoming only the now I know;
free, finally, from times attempt to capture me –

Soft words whispered to eyes keen enough to listen.

Natural History

I remember the road,
          the air raging against us
                            while time refused to move.
          My father wore driving gloves
                  absurd shorts
                        a proud mullet.

            When we stopped for gas he’d take note:

  • The odometer
  • The amount of gas
  • The reconciled mileage

             He’d check the oil each time.

Spitefully, the car gave up before he did,
                      and for three days in Virginia
            my sister and I waited for parts to arrive,
                          so he could fix it.
            and we-
                                        could get back on the road.

I remember he was always confident-
                  hopeful;
          only ever briefly apologetic,
                secreting his resentments away
                      to hasty whispers he alone could hear.

When we finally arrived in DC,
      we had two days left to visit the smithsonian…

I can’t remember why I enjoyed it so much.