I cough them down, keep them.
Words clamber up my veins, taking another route.
Their slow thrumbeat
begins to form a consensus. I leave them to their
skidaddling while I drive the minivan
full of children to their houses.
That sound? An undertone,
an overtone, a mixture of paints.
rainlike intelligence coats the windshield. I
cannot see the road. The white line
between breath and sweat blurs. The oncoming
traffic, if there is any, swerves. Confidence
I write “the rich valley soil”
thinking of you.
I comb the syllables
looking for the parts that matter.
The door opens,
the children exit.
I could use “sparklers” but how awful, and besides
nothing like it rhymes with anything I want to say,
not anything at all.