WREN JONES
Road Remains
Save us from the thud
of wheels over roadkill,
from our tight hold on car door handles
pretending to steer
mom’s blue Buick,
weaving across yellow lines.
Save us from
brightly lit dirty bathrooms,
glove compartment dusty pennies,
my stolen orange freezie, (sister, you steal light blue)
dodging her arm coming across the back seat
while neon ice numbs our insides.
Now we grab the wheel
for each other, prevent slides over
faded lines, her pale blue ghost
sits between us, points at a map.
Some roads go on forever into the night
and we navigate them poorly. We swerve
to miss the opossum, quietly bump
over its pink tail.