She

cranks the window down and reaches
her arm out our lazy window
into sixtythree m p h or so and
cranks the sunset up she

loves how the colors swirl late summer days
thumps the door in time with the catchy
static and laughs
"at what" my eyes on the road I
wish I was gutsy and blonde and in love she

answers with another laugh
wants to cut my name in the vangogh colors
with maybe a broken beer bottle
but I say no
"you can't cut fire
you'll just burn your hands"
and besides "you shouldn't play with glass" she

was just trying to be nice but I
had to keep my eyes on the road
no matter how much I
wanted to see the sunset behind her hair she

pulls her hand in
leaves the window down
when it gets dark goes to sleep I think pouting
when I shift gears, slowing into
No-town at three a m, she

wraps her hand over mine without waking up
between lips like crimson clouds she

says through too much darkness as hard as I try I can't
crank the window up on her she

won't be ignored by my
eyes on the road

she's fire, she says,
why do I even try to cut her?



This is a summer poem about a girl, and about sunsets in August, and about how the two have a lot in common. It's also about driving stick shift in a car when the other person's asleep. I'm not sure if I was in love at the time or just mooning over someone; the original writing is long since gone, but I've worked this over several times, and I think that even if it's not part of my own experience, maybe it'll help you see a spark that you missed in one of your own. Enjoy.


--jurph