Friday, August 22, 2008

The Road to the Reservation [V3]

leaving the stagnant air of your humid room
and the oily smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting summer 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 blows in harshly
it carries a hint of escape on it
billowing through our loose clothes
creating ripples in the fabric
the moisture on our skin amplifies every sensation
a shiver runs up my spine and arms

when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
the air is thick with the smell of a sweating earth
each powerful breath across the vast fields of tall grass
creates a lazy sway
a drowsy dance

your hand leaves the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
slightly losing control
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and engulfing us both with smoke that slides
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 stained hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with sunlight waning
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

we roll up our windows as a raw cold creeps into our bodies
and darkness creeps between the trunks and branches of the pines
we watch the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackle of your burning cigarette

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

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