Driving in Winter, 1960

Our car with no heat, an igloo

on wheels. Ice spores on windows sprawled

into frost ferns we could autograph with fingernails.

The loneliness of the back seat as great

as the distance between the two frigid poles.

Letters chiseled their way out of cold chests,

floated to the back seat in titanic strands

of frozen words that ripped our hulls.

Twice along the way we drifted through

warm harbors, two booths of light,

one smelling of roast  beef, the other apple pie.

My father dropped a quarter and it rolled to my feet.

I picked it up and placed it on the woman’s soft skin.

The crunch of ice beneath the tires lost its voice.

Now, when I cannot dodge the solstice of solitude,

I think of the hearth on the turnpike, 

the touch of the toll-taker’s hand.