The Next Exit

I push my heavy hair around on my head,
but the wind manages to pull a few strands
across my face. I look through them
at you. You, who are so mean to everyone else
except me, whose fuse is one inch long
and burnt out a few seconds ago
for the slow driver in front of us,
but is miles and miles for me.
You get around that driver and
turn right again. And every time we do
I'm thrown into your side,
which is hard, and never moves at all.
I think to myself that we take more
right turns than are probably necessary
as I fall into you
again and again and again...

You grin and scoop your arm around
me every time and I begin to realize:
I deserve to love just once
a man with big biceps covered in
half-sleeves and a comb in his back pocket
with a photo of me and a pack of something
to smoke and grease in his hair and wind
burning my face
speeding down the road
and around corners
and get my heart broken, so broken
and have the pieces cleaned up
and put back together by a nice guy
in a white shirt
at least once in my life.