After driving the first forty miles of the morning
you accused me of ignoring you.
Now I’m waiting for the next volley
but it isn’t coming.
I’ve been thinking for an hour since
and I don’t know what you meant.
All you probably wanted was to trade a few words.
My mind has been on road things.
I see that the ocotillo is greening,
the sage looks like new.
Some of the washes are wet
and there’s a three-day grass mantle
on the highway shoulder.
Even the cottonwoods show signs
of waking up.
But now that you’ve accused me
I don’t feel like mentioning these things.
Or the roadkills.
Or the Colorado,
which we just crossed
as you bore down on yet another postcard.
Maybe you’re right,
maybe this silence is oppresive –
indicating some great underlying DISORDER.
But the year is just beginning
and this car is running perfect.