This is a poem that resulted from an assignment from a course I am taking (remotely) at The Writers Studio, NY, NY. This is the original version that did not perfectly meet the assignment requirements, but is still pretty good. I like it the way it is, so I am publishing the unmodified version here. I hope you like it.
What I Don't Want to Talk About
Sandy Urias
“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,” the old 70s song blares on the car’s sound system. My mass of brown hair flies all around my face, the motion augmented by the windows all being open and the dry desert wind ushering in a storm. There will be a million tangles to comb out later, but at the moment, I don’t give one single care. I have had this beast up to 112 miles an hour before. I wonder how much faster it will go. Our favorite roadhouse dive bar is on the way to the desolate highway I crave. But, there is no “our,” is there? There never was.
I turn onto the highway and give it the gun. The massive V-8 engine roars in compliance. “Good girl.” But a cloud burst patters rain on the windshield and raises the creosote and oils from the tar and the earth. The scent is wrenching and pungent. Even this little bit of rain makes the road slick, so I keep it under 90 for now. The drops streak the windshield. He crossed the outdoor break area, not wearing a hat or a coat, to hold the door open for me in the rain, though I comfortably wore a trenchcoat and my western style hat. Any excuse to see me, to talk to me, to court. No. He does not get to care. He never deserved to.
Sunset is behind me with its delicate pinks, yellows, and purples pushing through and under the deep gray of the clouds. Huge cold splots of raindrops bounce off my side view mirror and mix with the tears on my pale cheek. Dappled sky, not long wet, not long dry. The downpour stops as suddenly as it began, and the pavement before me is darkened, but the moisture is quickly seeping in. “They’re all wasted!” hollers Roger Daltry on the stereo, but the growl of the motor drowns him out with a flex of my foot on the gas that causes the rear tires to bite and gain purchase from the forceful leap of my big red monster. It is normally a two-hour drive to the river. I wonder how long it will actually take me. I wonder if I will even make it. My eyes scrutinize every blob ahead and in the rearview mirror for a light bar or other indication of authority as the ambient glow and indigo mountains fade and I force more fuel into that which propels me. I feel my small frame settle into the contouring seat, holding me close against the forces of acceleration and gravity. We clung to each other as we stood in my kitchen, sobbing, without hope. No. There was no “we.” There is no us. There never was.
The full moon rises and I flow to meet it. Heart out. It looms so great and bright that I feel like I am going to drive right into it. The rain has made cool spots in the dips and washes I numbly pass through. Slower now. The craggy hills break across the moon’s face in the distance and scraggly poky trees twist like ghouls along the sides of the road. There is no seeing Johnny Law in the dark, so I slow my machine even more to just 19 over the speed limit. Fast enough to be satisfying, slow enough to avoid a night in jail. The radio isn’t playing anymore. Just wind noise and road noise, sniffles and disappointment. And lies. Lies and worthless longing. Lies I told myself and lies that I believed.
