Drive You Out of My Mind

I have to drive you out of my mind--

press down on the black tar interstate that splits the cactus and the poppies.

Part the opulent heat from here 

to Avenue A.

I have to pull ahead,

left of the pregnant Winnebago with Arizona plates, 

right of the Harley with the patriotic tail,

through the center of sweet water canyon 

brown and grooved like a walnut shell.

I have to pull off--

cross the overpass lined with trash 

and orange suits that bend and bag.

Pause where the signal light blinks—red, gone, red;

Rest my arm on the windowsill of my car.

Exhale acrid exhaust through paper mache lips,

my eyes like marbles in a sand pit.

Red, gone, red.

I proceed.

Pass Foster's Freeze--

a faded blue oasis of locked bathrooms,

plastic umbrellas casting crooked shade, 

french fries filling insatiable pigeons.

I have to pass,

turn on to the gray gravel road that circles your park,

where rust bites its way through posted signs:

No lifeguard on duty!

Dogs must be on leash.

Visitor parking only.

Each square has a number and a lawn like a hot spot on a dog's back--

rough, raw and unkempt.

I have to proceed.

roll by the metal boxes

with floral sheet curtains,

sleepy cats on couch backs

trucks that pout in driveways,

carports that bow their heads in reverence to past snowfalls.

I have to pull over,

Park;

Follow the crushed white stones between the potted plants and pink oleander

up two thick concrete steps to your door.

I have to press--

Press and wait;

bite my lip, study my shoelaces,

pinch the back of my shirt to fan the sweaty circle brought on by vinyl

and a hundred miles 

of driving you out of my mind.

- Copyright Hope A. Horner 2013. Use with permission by author.

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