That deep talking stage, late night wine
in fine restaurants:  you say
your fantasies include elevators,
candlelight, a trail of my clothing
from the kitchen sink to the bathtub.
How do I tell you my fantasies are

Pueblo, Colorado, just after sunrise, or
late night driving through California
singing to Hank Williams’ tunes
on the AM radio?  We might go to Reno;
we might go to Shreveport.
We might.  We could.
Your silver thermos between my knees,
powdered donuts, and all the stories

you ever knew clear across Montana.
Bed and breakfast in Provo, Utah;
gas from Mom and Pop
who’ve been married 50 years,
who say we remind them of their youth,
and here’s an extra package of butterhorns,
you kids drive careful.

My hand in your lap where
sometimes the fabric is loose, sometimes 
not -- oh I’d love you
even in Rupert, Idaho, under the neon
“EAT” sign, in the middle of the night,
when they’ve just sold the last
chicken fried steak.  

I found your Ohio Auto Club card
on a sidewalk in Portland, Oregon,
one afternoon in September, not far
from a rose garden where I shared
coffee with the man I loved before
saying good-bye.  Even the swollen
white roses could tell there was no
point, no purpose.  I don’t know
why I picked up your card, except

I was taking little with me at the time.
The weekend seemed to be expanding.
I thought that Monday morning,
I would phone the auto club,
tell them your card had been found.
Instead, I carried it in my purse
for two years, perhaps as proof
that someone else traveled
the same road, and kept moving.  
 
 

- Perri Gaittens