So we pull into a town called ‘Sandwich’ and guess what we can’t find?
So we have pecan pie instead.
We drive on through trees that hang over our car
like they’re trying to listen to our conversations.
Pointing the tank in the direction of Rhode Island,
one afternoon we’re sitting on barrels,
scraping lobster out of their sharp shells
(a delicate excavation)
so our mouths can dance from these gifts from the sea.
Our Lincoln town car – a weapon of a thing – has that smell of air freshener
and people before us.
Same as the car in San Francisco, except I’m sure I could smell pot.
We leave with swollen fingers and happy tongues
and I question myself about what Hunter S. Thompson would be doing.
We drift to Mystic where we eat pizza at the restaurant in the movie
where Julia Roberts gnashes her tall teeth; frigid as a professional virgin.
We sway on the pier afterwards with heavy bellies –
triple cheese pizza will do that.
Plymouth now, and I miss my boyfriend, so I call home and speak to his mother.
We take a historical tour around the town and just as I’m getting on the bus,
the lady driver mistakes me for a teenager
so I get on for a kids price.
Soon, we’re in Salem.
Dad passes me shots of port under the table because I’m underage in this country.
We sit in an old pub, our ears pooling with the sound of a singer
I wish I’d written down on a napkin.
Port warms my gut and flushes through my body like contrast dye
when I have scans for my drowning, scabby lungs.
I see overwrought horses in the street outside –
their feet probably thick with hoof rot.
Too much time standing on cobblestones
and not enough time moving.
I’m moving for them.
how I long to ride the horses back in Salinas.
too much time in a Lincoln town car
makes one weary and wanting for grass.