i asked for the map instead of your hand

mass pike access road, massachusetts. 6/7/2008, 5:00 p.m.


friday night i drove over 150 miles- passenger seat occupied, pocket burnt through.
my friend and i act like seventh graders around each other. but i'll put it all on where we are; that giant expanse of farmland children build tiny huts all around, that cove where the charles river gets its quiet baby start. ridiculous and shy and loud with sudden laughs.
and instead we just walk around, liking everything, boots covered in mud we can't see through the dark. sitting on the same stump like we could both fit, all twelve years old, all silent good excuses, burning out my flashlight's lamp, scared of that cat that wouldn't quit looking at us no matter how deep into the woods we got.
reminded how sand or shoulders or car sickness feels. overwhelming silent situational comedy. especially after i've pulled out of the driveway, headed the twenty-five miles home. that book i forgot to ask for, that arm movement i forgot to complete. a smile in the dark,


new kids teach me about new places,
new places teach me about new kids.