Headed out of Colorado our rental dash
told us we needed air. We pulled into a national park
gas station and found help. His mother or supervisor
was setting up the coffee machine in the mart
when he arrived, long brown hair and blue jeans, in a truck.
He had dark green eyes that did not work together, and was shy.
It was seven or eight in the morning and the warming mist
soaked the canyon’s sandstone, limestone, shale.
You put air in the back tires: he went first, talking
it quietly through, watched as you did the other.
I tried not to be too obvious in my admiring.
I lightly fantasized he’d never kissed a girl
or talked to one really, that fate had dealt him isolation.
You wrapped things up and I bought dollar coffees
for us for the road, and later you agreed he was handsome
and I learned you hadn’t noticed that his one eye had gone to God.
Road Trip
