Wheels

how can I tell you
baby, oh honey, you’ll
never know the ride
the ride of a lowered chevy
slithering through the
blue dotted night along
Riverside Drive Española

poetry rides the wings
of a ’59 Impala
yes, it does
and it points
chrome antennae towards

’Burque stations rocking
oldies Van Morrison
brown eyed girls
Creedence and a
bad moon rising
over Chimayo

and I guess
it also rides
on muddy Subarus
tuned into new-age radio
on the frigid road
to Taos on weekend
ski trips

yes, baby
you and I are two
kinds of wheels
on the same road

listen, listen
to the lonesome humming
of the tracks we leave
behind