Laura, in your white pick up I think you could do anything
and if given the right moment we could be kings of our own world.

Who doesn’t revel in sweet sweat or work done purely for pleasure?

If I could grow you a garden, I promised I'd make you endlessly well, brimming
with everything you need.

Instead we weep in our little rented rooms--so let’s stick with dreams we can get

Sweet cream butter on bread,
once a year trips and Best Western Inns with
Middle America in your rearview and oozing out our mouths

If I could go back to my mistakes I would make every one again
just somehow a little less embarrassing

Because for the first time
I want to be exactly who I am forever, at least
in this glistening moment--

sliding your sunglasses back up your nose with my gimy fingers,
the clouds bisect the sun.

We are nothing,

and the dew is still out on the grass blades
and your engine is off,
and today when you turn the key in the ignition it’ll start.

such assurance we rarely know.

so Laura
don’t put it off--

I’ve been late often enough to know
there is no future that won’t eventually be past.

This morning I will drive in the glowing with you.

Hungry for another night of indifferent destruction.

This world is ready
To fuck us up right back:

The Old Testament was all for retribution.

Carmen E Brady lives, writes, draws, and teaches in the rural Midwestern US. Follow her on twitter @therealcbrad or Instagram @dispassiontea.