this urge to drive somewhere—what is it?
from a fast window, even brown grass
looks exciting. rolling into town, the smell
of burnt apples. grandpas, babies, tattooed
teens squint in harsh sunlight as if waiting
to feel something. at the market, dusty
avocados, a tub of microgreens. I buy
cobalt blue glasses I don’t need. how lovingly
the seller wraps each one. I don’t ask
for much these days—a slice of pie,
some time in the shade, fruit ripening
on a low branch. beyond the field, white
crosses lean in the windless cemetery.