Driving Up from Missoula

I.

To my right

I see the worst storm

dark colliding with the mountains.

To my left

the sun is beaming on

cows grazing in Spring pastures.

Above me the sky is perfectly gray.

II.

Remember when you were always

sulking in my shotgun?

I’d look across the car

and have no idea how to reach you.

What?             What?

You sat with a magpie silence.

I could never predict

the storms blowing in.

I’m sure my laughter was grating.

My prodding. Times like those

I wished I kept a tin can telephone

in my car. I could have whispered

down a taut line to you

something sweet and summer
air you could can

and open when you needed.

Maybe you just needed

to brood in my car for a while.

I didn’t appreciate it.

I didn’t want to stand

under the clouds hanging over your head.

I’m sorry I couldn’t shake this feeling

it was my fault. Always my fault.

But you never said that.

III.

Pull up to a dark house,

crawl into an empty bed,

lie there like an animal

remembering the breath

and warmth of some mammal

who used to sleep here.

Remember waking to dreams

that had us clawing the air,

barking at each other

when all I wanted to do was

be quiet with you.