DRIVING NORTH ON INTERSTATE 99 THE POET CONSIDERS HIS LIFE AT FORTY

I’ve pushed all my lovers into winter nights

or fled them in 3 AM taxis, each city empty

as a room I slept in. I understood today

why my mother cries when I leave:

she got nothing she wished for at the driveway’s edge.

I ignored friends, stayed home to type in evening light

that even still makes me suicidal. I haven’t found words

for the gray-smudge sadness under my sternum.

I got everything I wanted and didn’t realize it. I got nothing

I wanted and made excuses. Still I can’t sit in a room

without television noise, or think about the past

without throwing pencils at the ceiling.

I can’t stand to drive in silence.

I can’t stand to drive with the radio on.