We were traveling
Down a bumpy Virginia road that looked a lot smoother than it was.
And I was listening to that kind of music that makes you want to fly away, and wonder about things. Not exactly in that order.
But out the window it kind of looked like we were flying away,
Because we were driving so fast it was almost like flying. But not quite.
And my dad told me to turn down the fly-away/wonder-about-things music, or I’d lose my hearing.
But I decided to go ahead and lose my hearing,
Because there’s not a lot to hear.
Or a lot I even wanted to hear.
Other than fly-away/wonder-about-things music.
And silence is loud enough for me anyway.
Then, beside us,
An orange truck passed,
Carrying a faded light-blue couch
With thin vertical white stripes.
And I wanted to ask the couch if it liked fly-away/wondering-about-things music
And wild, wild wind.
Because I do.
I also wanted to ask the couch about all the souls who have nestled into its cushions,
And what they had talked about, and what they had thought, and the music they had listened to.
But I never got to ask the couch,
Because the orange truck whizzed by,
Only leaving me with questions
And a bumpy Virginia road as far as I could see.
But I bet the couch had felt like it was flying.