"Earl Scruggs and Adrienne Rich Share a Cab to the Afterlife"

Season’s changing. Always. The only mistake
is expecting something more profound –
this vehicle could not be more ordinary:
dirty-yellow taxi, on-duty sign aglow,
driving just a little too fast through the confusion,
though not getting anywhere any sooner.
Previous passengers have scrawled names
on the seats and walls, making their marks
wherever they found room. Some with hearts
around their names, plus-signs connecting lovers,
flourishes under certain letters.
The driver has the radio on but we do not understand
the language. His phone keeps ringing
but he’s considerate enough not to answer.
We deserve at least that much care.
Outside is cityscape, all heartbeat
and sidewalk. Outside is a mountaintop
thick with pine. Outside is noise
and weather and the skeleton
of our century. Behind us a cloud of dust
swells and rolls like the tide –
rooster tail, inflating balloon, invitation.
Caption this. Capture what is familiar:
the ink and string and rhythm
of the ordinary, the beautiful, the both at once.
We have nothing in common,
only everything significant.
Our fathers are not waiting for us.
They are still somewhere in the shared past,
as we remember them, calling our names
and offering the advice they never gave
when we asked for it. Forgive us
for what we may have wasted. For anything
we did not get to in time. The road
narrows, turns. A hill is crested.
The pattern grows restless.
The road is the illusion of a road.
Something has changed.
It’s the season. We said that before.
A pen, quick. Let us add our names.
Let us say: we were here, once. We were here.

(first appeared in Heron Tree)