We pull out on a Sunday morning,
bicycles and suitcases strapped to a bumper,
dogs in back.
The mist hangs down like screen wire
across the road.
My fingers,
wrapped around the steering wheel
are spider's legs.
I won't see this town again.
You sit there on your hands,
cradle a thermos of coffee…
know we have forgotten something,
some book or kitchen utensil.
The sugar maples along our street are
bigger than they were yesterday –
but we can't stop.
We could park at the curb for a last look
and sit here forever.
The screen wire condenses on the windshield.
Turns the pavement silver.
This will be a fine journey…
when we hit the coast we may keep going.
