Wondering Which Continent You’re On

I drive along the interstate with my windows rolled down
after dropping my friends at their homes—
my friend who is as lecherous as I am
but much more crude in his expression of his longing for indiscretion
my other friend who is as codependent as I am
but much more exclusive in his efforts to forget and prove himself
—and I recall the phone conversation I’d had with my father
with whom I’d spoken only once since we had dinner near Christmas
as I smell the faint sweetness that might be the beginnings of this year’s crop of corn
as the scent swirls across this vast expanse
of pavement that connects one important place to the next
and I remember thinking as I hung up the phone
that perhaps I learned best from him how to pour myself as completely as possible
into one thing or another
in order to forget all of those things I’d only half-completed, half-attempted
half cared about
like the way I loved you until you were ready to love me
and then found it impossible to talk to you until you’d no longer listen for my voice
so now I’m left trying to figure out
as I wonder if the plane I saw in the sky this morning was the one that carried you away from me
which I regret more
that I didn’t walk away from you sooner
or that I walked away as soon as I realized that you might actually stay
and I’m reaching my exit now, but the sweet scent on the late Spring breeze
somehow reminds me of you
or at least reminds me of my sadness
and keeps me from forgetting
just how much I miss you

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