I Cannot Make Room for Another Driver


He was from Maryland, and hers; taller
than me by a foot or more; & focused
like horses
: blind to all but the finish
of someone else’s race. That story
about him dying: I made up the details.
But of course he was there. Windows
don’t shatter themselves, nor do cars
wreck without their drivers steering,

purposefully or not, into the crash.
He wanted it, in that small way —
I’m wrong to say that. But I’m the one
who still isn’t fair to women & hates it.

Please, let me apologize for calling her
hips hams,
saying I couldn’t stand us
or see a future in which we figured,
then never speaking to her again.
Please let me wonder how she is now,
whether she ever got over him dying,
though I don’t have that right, either.
You’re my world now, and I’m yours.
I chose always to walk in your woods.
I fucked up being metaphorical before,
but now I’m lost in your woods,

toting — nay: swinging — some ax
I can’t find a whetstone coarse enough
to sharpen to a piercing point

while you dream your own dreams.
You were right to tell me my sensitivity
is exhausting
. You were right to sleep.
I’m the one has to live with letting you
dream angrily. I’m the one wants you
one way and not another, the one
who worked seven years standing
before whiteboards but couldn’t see
the dead end. I’m the one telling
his counselor, “It should’ve been me,”
in hopes she’ll disabuse the notion.


 Patrick Faller