We once made love in a phone booth
and eloped the year after college.
The obvious thing to do
next was ditch our belongings
of all that could not fit
and head west without
an address to chain down
the feeling of entering
possibilities without gravitational
flux and aim for the bullseye in the sun.
New York to Seattle in seven lazy days.
Sleeping every other night in the car
with Sonja our cat, the first of many
I suppose to come between us.
We lived all week on burgers and coke.
At that age, in that time, it was actually
the healthiest thing we could do.
Keep in mind these were the last rugged
days of mobility’s disconnection before
the past would forever gnaw at our fingertips.
I remember waking to a rain-soaked dream
drumming on the roof of our Ford Escort
at a rest stop that even insects would not call
home in the barren Black Hills of South Dakota.
We were parked at the edge wondering if someone
stood in the trenchcoated shadows of the tall trees
under a sky that had traveled its own vast distances.
I turned on the heat, donned our quilt and drove in
the dark guided by ancient trauma of undeterred stars.