Summertime

Phoebe

The sun is beating down on me.

Spotlight shining

Through the driver’s side window.

Closing my eyes

Is not an option.

The glare refuses to hide.

The road is rigid

and broken

and cracked

Looks like my dried-up heels

Feels like this poor bus

Is driving on a flat

This is how I thrive.

This is how I drive

Treasuring every ride

My son

Often in the passenger seat

Sharing pages

Of his Marvel’s

adventures and escapes

I glance into the visor mirror

And see a tired little girl

I cannot understand

my day to day, fully

What must be going on in her head

Surely unruly

I once read a study on happiness

No potions

No pills

but experiences

This is how happiness forms

But I want this and I want that

No to those

For this drive internally enjoys

Truly entering joy

Art class is where we are

venturing to

Create a picture,

an expression,

to hang in our shared room

Now is the time.

Summertime.

I remember.

Time

Valuable. Earned. Needed. Relief.

This is my time.

Summertime.

I am seated in my

half busted

cracked leather,

bucket seat,

Driving.

Listening to music

or new finds from the library.

Today I have chosen my playlist.

Eclectic in its genres

from extreme to extreme.

Andre Bocelli

an Italian opera singer,

An assortment of

Hippy to Punk.

Ballads,

Heavy Metal,

and those favorite

Love Songs of mine.

Clear headed and fogged

Pink Floyd.

Hendrix.

Reggae soul from Bob.

Napoleon XIV.

Harry Nilsson’s The Point.

Angry songs to run to.

Disney is for play.

A little bit of Lois Armstrong,

and

if the night calls for it,

Sade.

Then of course,

rock and hymnals,

praising my faith.

From Christian to Eminem.

Extremes I did confess.

My hand stays on the ready

Turn the volume down to censor.

Piano Guys are my

music therapy of choice.

Talent exudes as they

play orchestrated renditions

of various melodies

and tunes.

Driving requires my mind

to aim in every direction.

To my right,

a gray Cadillac inching out.

Dear older later,

bless her sweet heart.

I will slow to allow time and space

for her to depart.

Ahead a light,

to the left a man

with a sign

shaking and clinging

onto a post

so he will not fall down.

My mind races day to day.

Never giving the right words

a direct path to be said.

Driving provides

this exercise of roaming.

A path has been cleared

thoughts proceed through,

making themselves

known.

Me, stripped away

From the distraction

of thought

that which has been influenced,

manipulated

or harped on.

The road is clear.

No gas lights.

This, my friend, is how I write.

Journaling through the escape.

Miles I have driven

literally.

For once,

an appropriate use of the term.

This is me.

This is my time.

Summertime,

When I think, cry, pray,

and return for another day.

Summertime.

Buying a new car

is the current task.

Lurking through

is something anew.

Phoebe the bus is her name,

her future, unclaimed.

My heart flutters out a tear

as I begin to see

this explicit medium of my life,

begins not a new chapter,

a new book,

written,

not authored, by me.

This is how I drive

to a place called The Divide.

I began the process of its end.

Phoebe, explored with me,

my truest desires.

Perfectionist writing refrained

and muscle memory

begins its exercise.

Away my hand goes,

direct from the heart,

the core of me,

begins to write.

Did I mention the notebook

carried on my lap

and my mastered skill

of writing

without looking down?

Disassociate in a Way,

For His Words to be relayed.

The ark of a stylistic

and authentic journey.

Highlight and look

for what was liked.

Then see where it takes me.

The words begin to fall out.