in the back of this same pickup
except pitch black night, not noon
and the stereo, glowing in the dark
is the only light in the truck
blue then red then green, purple, orange
and my mother is my brother
and my dad, a friend
and we're not going home
i'm not entirely sure where we're going
just that the little tree is still dangling down the rearview mirror
it smells like pina colada not
my mother's perfume
and instead of quietly in my earbuds
this song
this song is blasting
and we know all the words
they are our energy
and nothing exists except this
and this is nothing
and yet somehow we exist
or maybe we exist
Maybe I still exist,
but I mouth the words to myself,
my mother is driving,
we're headed home.
YOU ARE READING
Today, Love: An Anthology of Self
Poetryit's easier to define certain mysteries by what they are not
