Either the roll of the waves following us home
or the drone of wheels on asphalt.
The sway of the tide still caught within my small body
or the memory of being weightless.
A stale square of spearmint gum or
the smack of emptiness, the start of a headache.
Either the acrid flap of the hot wind
through the cranked window
or a cassette tape breaking off mid-song.
We were so happy then
weren’t we?
Half-asleep and sun-drunk I’d scan
for silver sun puddles on the road’s shoulder:
real as anything else,
always gone when we got there.