The rain, a green mask over Storrow Drive; the night, making a Rambrandt portrait of your face; the river, dark enough to be another lane; you, on the driver’s side; I, beside you, mis-reading signs. Was it last night? Last year? Last week?
I was playing Mother, saying: fasten your seatbelt hoping you’d repeat the same to me.
You explained: Accidents happen too fast for preparation. Enjoy the direction. Goals are what we need.
Too dark to part the autos from momentum; too shadowy to know if you smiled; the wheels made another road between the vehicle and street.
We were a bridgehead, a moving island, safe but temporal transient on Storrow Drive.