Self-Portrait in a 2002 VW Beetle

The Bronski Beat sings

run  away/turn away/run away

as I shift into fifth gear,

push through fog that shrouds

the tops of trees. Sometimes

I want to pass my destination

and step on the first train to anywhere,

watch the landscape and backyards

from a passenger’s point of view.

Once I passed a cop on a motorcycle.

Unwise. “You want to tell me why you think

it’s a good idea to pass me?” he asked.

The shadow of his hat darkened my door.

“I’m in love,” I answered as if it were

a universal excuse, then said,

 “Not with you, of course.” Also unwise.

My mind clutches the scrap of an idea

while I’m on the road, and the white noise

of the pavement under my tires sings

that thought into an entire musical,

complete with sets and homemade props.

With the sunroof open, all my thoughts

go to seed like a dandelion in a gust of summer.
My hair imitates.

I scrawled POETRY across an old political

bumper sticker, then added one that says

“Reading is Sexy,” another that claims “I like this,”

and a pink circle with “I love the hoop” written

in the center. I believe it’s possible

to have too many bumper stickers.

In the little plastic vase on the dashboard

I keep a pair of chopsticks and two pens.

The glovebox is a morass of papers

that prove the car is registered and insured.

In dreams my car is an anchor that drags

me into the mazy haze of underwater

swimminess, a lake that wants to swallow

my life. I spin off an empty highway

and land in my own madness.

The other night, I dreamed my middle name

was Joule – a unit of energy in my center of being.

I think of myself as Joule inside this red bubble.

I wave to the crossing guard,

tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the Bangles’

Going Down to Liverpool to Do Nothing,

and unroll the window to feel the air

howl its big, empty questions in my ears.