It is 33º outside, and I am
driving with my windows down,
my open hand in the blowing cold,
the angle of my arm steering
the flight of January air
so it fills my car with itself.
It tousles my hair as it passes.
Miley on the radio as I roll by
a graphic exhibition of roadkill
(truly, Nothing Breaks Like A coyote
flattened by a drifting semi).
I think briefly of death,
but mostly of life.
My body is wind-stung, and the
music, maxed out, rattles
the speakers. My ears are full of
winter & sound. I am surrounded
by feeling.
I pull into a parking spot that
faces a wall against which I once
photographed my wife.
Memories. (These are feelings too.)
I let it all settle on my skin as I
carry my bags inside,
pink-cheeked and ruffle-headed,
wishing to wear this
mussy look as long as I can.
It is the look of the living.
It is beautiful on me.