Drive-Thru Window

I wait behind the wheel,
at the drive-thru window,
for my meal.

Do I look high,
blasting an INXS tape,
in my 92 Pontiac,

like I'm a few years late
for the Eighties.
A woman takes my money

looks me up and down,
disappears.
I feel high.

Turn up the volume.
Drum the wheel.
Watch the rain begin.

Twenty-three years ago,
I slid into the world
and Kick hit the charts.

The first year I ever lived,
everything that was
thought already is.

Rungs of wisdom
in every moment.
Why not climb that

see-through ladder.
Transcend power.
The window opened up.

I reached to grab my fountain cup.
Hit the glass of in between.
I put it there to block the rain.

Now I know,
I do look high.
Grab the wheel and wave goodbye.

Along for The Ride

We grew up near each other
on different streets, so we both know
different ways to the same places.
When I make turns that seem strange

take the scenic route,
you merely point it out,
a passenger in this vehicle
who rarely grabs the wheel.

Who wants to go the fastest way
all the time? Highways are efficient,
but wrong exits are interesting when
you're along for the ride.

I like where you take me,
when I'm your passenger
floating over familiar streets
that never looked so strange.

We waste our fuel on these trips,
driving fast on roundabout paths.
We could really take it slow.
Walk together instead.