Monday, August 11, 2008

The Road to the Res [V2]

leaving the thick stagnant air of the humid room
and the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting sun
we head for the reservation
with windows wide
your nicotine stained hands on the wheel
my tired writer eyes on the long shadows in front of us

wind billows in harshly
blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in the soft flowing fabric
cooling our wet salty skin and sends a trail
of goosebumps up my arms and spine
it carries the hint of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
to vast fields of tall grass swaying lazily
and the scent of wet mossy rocks rises up
as we pass out over the gorge with the content stream far below
cutting calmly through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and filling the air with smoke that slides
from out past your still tongue
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reach the reservation at dusk
you buy your cigarettes while i wait out in the car
watching other people with nicotine hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with the sun falling below the horizon
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

dark brings on cold and we roll up the windows
watching the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackling burn of your cigarette

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

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