Driving Through:  Nov.7, 1985

Somewhere in Maine, a fisherman
is stepping onto his dock.  It was a Sunday
morning when he cocked his head,
picked up a light scent in the
coastal wind, and wept;
he was reminded of the soot
in a woman’s chest,
with the rest of her, buried
in Portsmouth.
Look.  He is there now, twisting
the ring on his hand.  The name
on the side of the boat is peeling;
he has the look of a man
holding an empty net.

I know more than you would like.
You would rather be in some
falling field, than the place we are going.
Just now, I was your reflection-
not in the rear mirror, but in the eyes
of the dog we passed.  You have something
in common: the look of a man holding
his empty net.  We have been
driving for miles; we are miles away.
Behind us,
the dog is looking for something to kill.

Rachel Goodman