The search for a likely place to pull over
gets more difficult each day,
as cloverleaf and cloverleaf give way
to fast food exits and unlikely outlets.
We get better at doing something,
so we do it every day. Every day,
we do the something, even if it kills us.
Which it does.
There’s nothing at the package store
that we can’t get on the internet.
And it’s not like the price of gas
goes down. Nor anything else.
I’ve been wanting a lonely lane
that’s off the map. I need to stretch.
And if you want to neck, we’ll neck.
As long as I can get out; take a leak.
Frog bodies spread like throw rugs
across the blacktop. So enticing—
were we small enough—to cuddle there.
But everybody’s small in a Pontiac.
Or rather, no one is ever too big.
This poem ran in the March 3, 2011, issue of the magazine.