Pittsburgh in Your Rear View Mirror
from Variety Pack: Selected Poems, page 13
Petaluma, 2004
A July sun climbs the elm trees,
and the last thing you see
is your mother shouting tears
in the Hornet’s rear view mirror.
Your sister waves a feeble smile
while Lexington Court fades green.
Almost everything you own
is sold. What’s left is your idea
of basics. Labeled boxes stacked
on the roof, cover of black plastic,
snugged down with a diamond hitch,
and you think it’s like something
from the Grapes of Wrath.
The back seat is rigged for sleep.
You don’t mind the fetal position
but you’re so stoked you know
you won’t sleep much.
Later, when asked the date,
you realize it’s the same day
as the other wedding,
and you bleed aching memories.
Fort Pitt slides by with the Monongahela.
Before the Liberty Tubes swallow you
a sternwheeler slides beneath the bridge,
its calliope puffs a steamy farewell,
and the last thing you see
in the rear view mirror
is you.
