On the Road

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ON THE ROAD


Raindrops on the windshield at dusk, 

and brake lights smudge like a thousand roses. 

What did I do to deserve this, 

or the view from Shell Mountain pass

last week that I could almost taste, or how 

she hunches her shoulders and scrunches her nose

when I call her a little stinker, staring at me

in the rear-view mirror from her car-seat? 


Yesterday a student returned my copy

of On the Road by Kerouac, and I could see

the answer in her eyes but I asked anyway 

what she thought of Moriarty and The Chase, 

and she said he said everything 

I think, and I knew what she meant 

and what she thinks because it’s what I think

and he thinks and we think, 

which is that it’s just too much for us

and never, ever enough.


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