Tonight’s drive back north
From Southern California finds
The red that trailed the sunset
Now in the taillights of
Big rigs into which I stare.
The squeegee I used
At the gas station
Thirty minutes prior
Cannot help now,
Causing me to squint—
Although the absence
Of tule fog along with
The countless occasions
When I have driven
This stretch of the 99
Assuage what smears
The bugs and dirt
Make on my windshield.
If I had it my way,
My daughter and my son
Would be seated behind me
In this blue sedan and pass time
Sliding their thumbs
On glass screens
To message friends
And to hear tunes that
Captivate their teenage ears.
They no longer require
Car seats, and their mother
No longer demands
To be behind the wheel.
I reach back, knowing
Silence is my passenger,
Knowing I am driving
Farther from what
I once called home.
Gregory Ramírez was born in Fresno, California. He earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees from California State University, Fresno, and a Doctor of Arts from Murray State University. Since 2008, he has taught English full-time at Madera Community College. More than two dozen of his poems have appeared in journals and anthologies nationwide.
Find him online: