You are my umbrella
fleece‐lined boots in the great blizzard.
It was You Who
did not zip past
as I hitched
on the New Jersey Turnpike,
but picked me up
amid the vehicles whizzing by
in the drizzle.
I feel your presence near,
so why my hesitation now?
Why my cold doubt at this most electric moment
—when the world is about to give me the once‐over,
when it shows its bare upper thigh,
and sings in my ear
of what a good time we’ll have?
Sure, I already knew
your priorities, what loyalty is
and what it is not.
There have been enough wreckages
in my own life for me to sense the next one.
You are always close by, my God,
we just don’t know where or when.
Up ahead a rusted ’90s pickup
flashes its headlights twice,
as I stand at the side of the road
my thumb raised in the air,
shifting back and forth.