We would drive around a lot and
smoke cloves, listen to the bands
you wanted me to like,
to be a little more like you.
I loved the music more when you left me,
but not in the way you liked it,
I don’t think.
I don’t know—you were only twenty-two and
I was seventeen and there
weren’t enough hours in the day
for driving around.
We could never go far enough away
from Memphis, Tennessee.

I was never the escape
you wanted to be my getaway driver
for, I was never allowed
to cross state borders
without a note.

You couldn’t understand why I loved
the smell of gasoline so much,
the dry green trees, soft dirt,
those deep blue skies
where you saw only planes.