this is what I see when I look in your

Tire tread clutching asphalt, no, I see the asphalt exhale after a rain bath; no, I see someone driven by the bottle behind a wheel, blue the wet of monsoon. I see a mind revolving around gasoline on rain, served neat, no, I see someone who’s daddy had him drinking at age nine, yeah, I see you’re dressed to the nines in that fine, cut-to-fit straightjacket.

I see a guitar pinch-hitting for feelings. I see the curved rim of your baseball hat, how it obscures two unleaded eyes wherein I see forty-one years of trial and error. I see the tires bald from miles on a dragged out, migrant road, punctuated only by clock-work visits to the fuel pump. I see you still craving. I see your knees still knocking at the thought of wet glass and whatever will go down smooth.

I can see the glossy road in your eyes. I see the tree you’re holding onto for dear life. I see it by looking at you, looking at her.  Eleven years of vertical growth, an abundant need for sunshine, rinsed in every enchanted shade of gold and honey, miles of roots clutching far and wide into your life, yes, I see the quietest, paper-thin tremor, each eye vying for more remembrance than the other as leaf after leaf drops away.

for M