You said it’d take six days to drive to Carolina.
Maybe you could meet me halfway, measure
distance-time dissolving between us there.
I saw you in Bahia Honda, then Marathon, in
Islamorada—Key Largo—posed up on the signs.
They described how Hemingway, his typewritten
typecasts, swings of rod to sea, erratic early-
morning promises, his beard sodden in excess
from brandy and even rum—how he may have
even slept here. Right before his leaving. In Miami
you could make out the beach, sort of, against
neon and shouts, the flickers of another waitress
going by that you watched walk back to bar
as the shift of Biscayne air slit a hole
up in the sky. There were full moon interstates,
mistakes, a shortcut past Tallahassee, your recollections
of grass and green. There were restaurants you never
slowed for, and then there was the rain. The snow
all over Charlotte, aftereffects of layover, people
in a swarm whispering nothing, no, nothing,
would ever change. I remember thinking, stranded,
the word repetitive as strip malls and big box stores,
found strands of hair you’d left in sinks. Smiled
at fluffy bathrobes provided, complimentary, fingers
working against tiny soap bar packages, the conditioner
you never use. Everyone else for miles and miles
sits and waits for their toes to thaw. Then there was New York,
Connecticut—there were symbols against paper, maps
no one could have read. There was the time my father
taught me how to drive on a long stretch of road
in the corner of Idaho, fear up against the steering wheel
as I leaned sneaker into gas. Heard the engine whine,
wind up, up and over mountains, learned how to change
lanes and pass. There’s South of the Border, there’s
Philadelphia, there’s the sprawl of Washington DC
that no one can get around. There’s the Chesapeake
and everything after, the tar a set of snowdrift
discards. There’s the magnets you think of buying,
the postcards that you do. There’s that outlet mall
where you can find a pair of khakis or two from Gap
in their numbered deal of the day, of the week,
of the escalating exit signs turned to rubber-tire beats,
hums through pink lips, a fresh shade you found
somewhere near Savannah, your exhales as regular
as the windshield wiper moves. The wind, every mile,
gets even cooler and the sun’s a worried glance in
the mirror again to make sure that everything behind you—
in the music-moved rearview—the bass beats shaking
lines to waves, isn’t exactly where it’s no longer
supposed to be. Everything’s behind you, and even cars
can shift bright light to other gleams, the sink of days
crushed and crushed while the coffee in cup holder
fits awkward so misshapen from the gripping.
Holding on. There—right there—is the next rest area
you smile and whiz on by. It makes a difference
where you stop to catch yourself, or find time
to reposition dashboard GPS. Honk the horn
as the sun goes down. Sing too loud, and scream.
Everything before you gets closer—but behind you,
the world’s what disappears. There’s images of sky
and mountains meeting, a sea of fog that might just
linger on. Foreshadows cast to kissing, of gasps and late-night
exclamations, a search against the half-light
carpet floorboards for the steps back into bed, it’s 6 a.m.,
depending on the route you take, depending on the road.
It’s six days to Carolina, depending on when you leave.