Pull Off on Old Lyme Road to Fuck
Because I would have given everything for you to want to talk to me you remain the sound of street lamps in sleepy towns back up by Ichabod Crane and George Bailey, over one-car bridges and gentle falls that amount to a less-concerned angel saying, get up, you’re fine, walk it off. And so we did. But I was there when we nearly got hitched. Drove down the Hutch-River Parkway together. The scenic view paled to the sight of you. Your long-bared legs stretched across the dash first and then my lap as you read aloud from Ann Patchett’s Truth & Beauty. One foot stroking the other like a hatched plan. You turned your body in a striking coil so as to talk to me. The intoxicating distraction of it all and you; I could not keep the road.
