As we drive
the front window fogs &
I can’t remember
how did we get here
to unpathed roads
with faded stop signs
& strangers that stare
as we pass but do not help
when our tire goes flat?
you keep saying
you can hear the sea
if you listen hard enough
but what I hear instead
Is the sound of cars & trucks & people
with lives more important than ours
passing by
leaving people like us
to fend for ourselves
Potholes
I never asked
for newly paved roads
or white picket fences
I’ve always hated
picket fences & neat gardens
& neat little lives
but here we are
still hours away
& neither of us will admit
that we’re headed nowhere
or that we’re running out of money
once in a while we’ll get
drive-thru coffee & eat stale pretzels
most of the time
we feel our past beneath us
wearing down the engine a bit more
& don’t tell me that hour by hour
you don’t wonder how long we will last
Lane Changes
The light has changed
but we’re not moving
& the air smells of ash
& fresh rain
I can see the road ahead
faded billboards advertising mom & pop diners
newly planted saplings on the edges
of these slushy streets
It’s as if someone expects
something to grow here
& it’s hard to pretend that I’m not terrified
of the moment we continue on
Crosswalks in the rain
Puddles pool under our tires. A lone man crosses the street, his hair creased with crisco-like waves of white–an otherwise young looking man, whose sole goal at that moment is getting over to the other side. You let him cross, even though he is jaywalking and you had room to go and the cars behind us are blaring their horns in orchestrated cacophony. After him you let a woman cross. The only thing remarkable about her is a rainbow striped umbrella and long blonde hair that looks like it’s never been cut.
Later, when I ask why you let them both go even though the car behind us was literally nudging us, you turn to me with an expression so blank for a minute I’m afraid I’ve lost you again. But then your eyes light up, the way they once did when you picked me up for a trip to the library or that cafe where they sold maple nut sticky rolls.
But this time, it’s not for me, nor am I the woman I used to be, and your passion can only move me so much.
There was a chance, you say, That they might somehow find each other on the other side.
Erin Jamieson received an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Into the Void, Flash Frontier, Mount Analogue, Blue River, The Airgonaut, Evansville Review, Canary,Shelia-Na-Gig, and Foliate Oak Literary, among others. She currently works as a freelance writer.