Even though you've been here before,
it's as new as his right hand uncurling from the gear shift
and hunting for yours while he keeps his eyes on the curved road,
although you weren't crying loudly enough for him to hear,
hadn't even started to follow the thought, only an image
of your father's face receding in the side view mirror-mirage
or nightmare, it doesn't matter-tears coming on of their own accord
and the radio spitting a little between syllables of Tom Petty's
drawl. You tell him that you love him, but what you mean
is that despite all the big talk you're still afraid to be known.
Pine trees wheeling past the windshield tower over you
as surely as a parent looms above his own child, the one he invented.
It's early or late, and the wind is picking up. This is as new
as the look in his eyes when he says he loves you and isn't kidding
or trying to get you to make dinner. Wherever you are going,
it is winter and summer, it is midnight. You are almost there.