They watch but they don't know.
My white knuckles cut off digging
Garroted throats and bulged blue eyes.
Popping out of heads, reddened with the strain of this squinting sight.
An audience to this fresh hell.
They don’t know of the nostalgia I feel.
The roller coaster
rides down the back country roads.
My squeals like the
tires,
one hand on the
wheel,
one hand on my thigh,
somehow you could still ride that pick up into submission.
And then laying
there in the bed of the pickup,
naked before the
stars,
I saw you so clearly.
Laying there on the
side of a road,
too tired to move,
wet from the sweat and early morning dew.
Should I tell our son of this nostalgia?
