On the Drive Home (poem)

My mother asks, "Do you ever think

in poetry?" She says she does

sometimes, though she doesn't

know about form. It's so dark tonight.

Starless, almost void, and we are driving home.

I tell her I do think in poetry

and she seems satisfied. I do, after all,

have an advanced academic degree

in writing and now I have proven I use it,

even if only internally. We barely talk

as we cruise along the freeway, mother and daughter,

so similar, even, as it were, in thought.

It's Christmas and we are a family reunited.

Only in thought do I admit I am the same as her.

I ride, she drives, and I think in poetry

until it screws my face up into a wad of discontent

and my mother asks me more than once

if I'm OK. I say I am. I'm probably not lying.

The poetry keeps me honest.