09.05.00
12.19.03

Dear Verdi,
Sunday morning I knelt outside my tent and watched
the pink of your hair moving away as you walked past
other tents and vans. I wished I could fold you up
small and skinny and slip you in beside me in the
car, but there was no space and anyways we were going
in different directions.
My friends fought and smoked pot through 15 hours
of teeth-clenching highway turnsd and the same damn
Grateful Dead tape flipping over and over in the stereo.
I closed my eyes and prayed to get home safely, knowing
Scooter would never forgive me for dying this way, wanting
to cuddle up next to you, or wishing I could be
riding with you and your friends in the cramped truckbed
becauseI love the sound of rain on steel.