Driving off like a postman,
With the aerodynamics and color of a cardboard box,
Because I wanted to meet you.
It was not cruising along
with crunchy white static blanketing windows in Wyoming,
being buried, yet unaware
after I emerged into Montana,
the snow relented, but I did not because I wanted to be
with you, not erasable,
able to boast the world’s largest and smallest city parks.
Always loving the loner
bear hug the road-weary,
The Fugitives and Refugees Palahniuk wrote about
in that book about you.
you—in a plethora of cafes—
pour coffee or wine for lonely travelers and locals
Together, all in one place
are peer-pressured by those
who hang signs, dictating that you should be kept weird.
They try to control you,
people imagining they
Squeeze grass up and shovel the snow off Mt. Hood,
who killed those climbers,
destroyed with power,
if it ever comes down from on high and into the streets
shutting everything down.
Though it was I who apologized
to stop summer with its blossoms groping out
Like people parked, stopping
on the side of a road
to pick wild blackberries for a sweet dessert
like crème aux bleuets skies,
that you find in a recipe book,
with temperate calm and even keeled affection
I never would have left you
driving off like a postman.