a poem a day for a year #169

by Amy Turn Sharp


I am driving in my minivan,
the windows are down.
It is one of those hazy summer nights where everyone is tired.
The radio blares The Police and the children and my husband 
are placid in the long sun streams that drag across the seats,
their faces. 
The Police sound so vintage.
Don't stand so close me me. 

I am aware that these are the best days of my life, but I'm still gone away.
My mind is not on the asphalt, on the road.
My mind is flying under the radar of suburbia,
under the pavement of my hometown.
Towards the future or the past.
My mind is cherry bomb.
A living room, 
a parlor where we talk.
I am stitching up the past with a giant silver needle, 
there is not one ounce of thread.

I can navigate this rolling machine in the direction of home.
I can order coffee through square windows.
Listen to the soundtrack of my life.
Stop or slow down.
Wave at neighbors.
Let you all sleep silently on the long road home.
But I can't turn off my mind.
I can't stop making sense,
like math,
but with people.