On road trips, we break up
the drive with 'Farm Fresh Cherries' or the dark 
sweet shade of spruce and coastal cliffs.
We take turns driving and letting each other in
the passenger door with its broken handle.
Burger King over Taco Bell. A&W if we can find it. 
I've cried in a Popeyes, for other reasons.

Snacks go faster than conversation. What bird lives
its whole life in the air except to nest? Should we 
buy this abandoned house and fill it with our life? —  
the right twigs, good leaves, an antique typewriter and cherry pits, 
gas station postcards saying 'hello, we were here, once.'
Shall we lick our words into the walls, cement our softness to the eaves,
make a spit pact to hold on while we can? Maybe if we knew
how easy growing old together could be 
if we loved each other more. 
Swifts pair for life and sleep in flight 2 miles above the ground, 
fighting the wind to wake up where they fell 
asleep, a poem on sickle wings going nowhere.