Road Trip

Keeping it buried
in a book
has come to mean clean,
nose to the grindstone should I slip
and forget gathering gas
to bring him home from jail.

Four hour ride to tell
we're vegetarian now,
Mama might grow her hair grey.
I'll say ,"Yes, I'm still preaching Sundays.
No one's embarrassed.
We sold the furniture,
hoping to be gone
before long."

I don't mind lifting my pen,
it's my sights that get blinded
by the windshield sun.