elegy for a thirteen-hour road trip

the day after david berman’s death
the four of us drive down to north carolina
to visit your father. we stop in
virginia, put our heads in the old pillories,
and you slow your blinks in half
to witness every inch of skyline.
in boone i slip your stepmother a cigarette.
we chase down krispy kreme donuts
with cheerwine and ginger ale.
we howl at karaoke in unison,
taking backlit photos that will never develop.
on our last day, we hike a new mountain.
your father points out the foliage
as i trail behind with my disposable.
it is the last time the four of us are together happily.
in the backseat i feel the wind shift
across each state line—past north carolina
and virginia and maryland and
delaware and new jersey and new york
and connecticut and rhode island and,
at last, massachussetts. i fill my lungs with august air,
hold it tight until the walls break.