Cavalier

Diane drives up 87,

her foot’s on the gas.

We pass other cars.

I look at her,

her mouth is tight.

I want to touch her,

but fear she’ll disappear.

She might disappear

if she reads my texts.

They burn holes

in my pocket, rob me

blind. She squints to see

the road, sky, dark

and closing in.

Love turns dark, closing in.

I’ve been waiting,

I can feel the coming shock.

I love the crook of her nose.

She gazes out beyond us.

The ride is smooth,

I reach for her hand.

I squeeze her hand,

it’s limp, cold,

doesn’t squeeze back.

“I love you,” I say.

She pulls her hand away.

Diane squeezes the steering wheel,

her knuckles turn white.

“Who’s Gaga Mama?” she asks.