Fugue on Wheels

Last night was warm. The wind stilled
As the grey van rolled through town.

The face at the wheel was hard
To see. It might have been you,

If you’d let your hair grow out,
Grey and white. I tried to see.

I knocked. You rolled the glass down,
But the eyes were wrong. I asked

You your name but you just shrugged,
So I tried to name your state—

Fugue? Blind sight? Ghost? Shade? My dream?
No, not your dream, you said. Mine.

So, this is your dream? I asked.
You jerked a thumb at the back.

The door slid, and I climbed in.
Where to? You asked. You tell me,

I said. The back seat was dark
And cramped, books piled in tied stacks.

Read much? I joked. The van creaked,
And we were gone from that town.

This is more like it, I said,
As I peered out at the dark.

By dawn, I was at the wheel,
Peach-dust sky on wide, grass fields.

Did I catch your name? you asked.
No. You can’t catch me, I laughed.