Highwaymen

a poem

I am in someone else’s home
the dark wood floors stretch wide and long
I work on the patio by the wind chime that sings to me
The owner loves me, and I can stay as long as I need
There is power and water and heat and gas
My body is adjusting to the expectation of homeostasis again

I build an emergency kit with bottles and quick fire
for next time, the certain next time
A map is suggested.

Remember maps?

Crinkled soft and cotton-like in the car doors and glove boxes
of the Crown Victoria and small stick-shift red truck
in which I learned to drive
whenever I could keep the gearshift from stalling
before manual engines learned to sputter patiently and wait

Granddad built roads and bridges for the Highway Department
and manned the wheel with the inside of his left wrist
casual but not at all disengaged
eyes on the road, covered in wrap-around shades

Papa was never happier than when driving
unless he was talking about cars or railroads
He taught me to drive on a caliche road
where the wind made the heat hotter
blowing white with the gravel dust

These are men who lived without central air and never touched a computer
Oil and asphalt ran through their respective fingers
They labored outside in the sun that spotted their faces and arms
a speckled brown under analog watches,
a thin gold band and a proud class ring

I knew then that I was losing them to time,
that they would die without me,
that I could not keep them long
and it was too late for us all to start over
with somehow more days.

Papa called me to see how I made it through the storm
He is almost ninety-two
The red truck is gone
I tell him I made it fine.
His memory is going.
I buy the large-print edition and wish for their maps instead.