A manuscript of journeys

Greasy windowpanes
Some odd fingerprints
A layer of dust
"Manu ♥ Meena" on the windscreen
Raindrops and a blurry outside
Teardrops to hide a broken inside
Stuffed toys line the back
A yellow teddy with a broken leg
God on the rearview mirror
Popcorn on the floor
A folded magazine from 2006
Papa's business cards
Mom's cassette of devotional songs
Brother's discarded CDs
A car and its windowpanes
A manuscript of journeys

Naomi Shihab Nye

A poet I discovered with lots of help from Sushobhan. 

San Antonio

Naomi Shihab Nye

Tonight I lingered over your name, the delicate assembly of vowels a voice inside my head. You were sleeping when I arrived. I stood by your bed and watched the sheets rise gently. I knew what slant of light would make you turn over. It was then I felt the highways slide out of my hands. I remembered the old men in the west side cafe, dealing dominoes like magical charms. It was then I knew, like a woman looking backward, I could not leave you, or find anyone I loved more.

Like perfume no?

She played

She played an imaginary piano with her toes. A song long gone. A symphony which even the breeze outside refused to acknowledge. That length of hair by her side no longer waltzed to the wind outside. In the silence of the morning she heard a sparrow break into a chirp.