Road Trip

Road Trip Kelly Grace Thomas

I think of you on some deserted Midwest highway that hasn’t learned your temper yet. With a shoebox full of ties, you chase the winter. Hold it close. Windows down. Celebrate callous like a trophy. Laugh at those seeking warmth. You are not listening to the CDs I made you. The letter I wrote sits unread in my dumpster among eggs shells and other things that easily break. I’m still picking up the pieces, sorting through all the things others didn’t want. I thought I deserved a goodbye. You thought I should swallow your silence, chew on all the things you never told me. Grant me park-bench pity as the miles between us grow. Your apologies held like rotting Velcro, every lie starting to rip. I sit in traffic on Lincoln, return library books on your old street. You never held my hand. Even before, too busy chasing that winter. The joke always falls upon those with faith. Learn to give up before the punch line beats you down. I turn on the heater with questions I thought kept me warm. I feel pain deeper than wells without echoes, but hug my words tight, knowing never again will the cold sleep in my bed.