boring drive from
Pennsylvania.
we take turns
at the wheel.
she puts her foot
out the window
when it's my turn.
she opens a bag of potato
chips.
some go flying
around the inside
of the car.
we're both quiet
and tired
from the trip.
the trunk is full of
rattling
Tupperware,
jammed with leftovers
from thanksgiving.
the radio
is on.
the signs go by in
blurs,
the billboards,
the telephone poles,
the dashes
on the road.
it's becoming night.
she points at a cloud
in the sky
and asks me what
i think it
looks like.
i tell her, i think it
looks
like a witch on a
broom,
angry and frail.
she says i think it looks
like your mother.
we don't talk
for a while.
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