High Beams
Snow-globed inside
the Fiat is
the scuffed drama
of Dad’s shoes,
his knuckles. We don’t
say much and
munch on the last
of rest-stop pizza. Clusters of
lights
drop down
from the horizon & come undone
in pairs
as they pass us
in a whoosh
of wind & blurred
metal.
Are we the
Stars
of the ever-uncoiling
Movie of the Road?
Bubbles
blown
out of a straw
that might tickle a child?
In any case
I keep mum about my boyfriend
and forget Mom’s
mood swings & blood
on the carpeted floor. Years
before he gives up
the wheel,
rocks smash
against Earth’s upper
atmosphere,
glimmering debris
caught
in the rearview mirror
& his eyeglasses.
Dad says it’s a comet
but I mumble
meteor shower
***
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Photo by Owen the Signal/Flickr