Driving Home

Her father once told me,

“You drive like old lady.”

And I can’t help but think 

of this as she sleeps, her

hands around my bicep,

the weight of her 

head resting against my

shoulder. At each red light,

I do my best to brake slowly, 

but she wakes. Not with 

a hurry, with a soft smile

and says, “Whatchya thinkin

about?” A poem, I say,

then reach for her hand,

knowing these moments 

matter most. We ride in 

silence until home. I park

and hit the curb. Both of us

crave the warmth of sleep,

of each other. As I turn off

the car, she looks over,

asks, “Can I hear the poem?”

No, I say. It’s not finished.