Interstate...

Interstate

Half-eaten fries, the remains of hash browns,

fill the table's distance between them.

She scoops the car-keys, says she'll not be long.

In the washroom mirror she checks her face

close up; sees years of wearied waiting.

She steps into a sticky afternoon.

How long before he'll notice, before he'll ask –

the forecourt is nauseous with diesel and ocean –

ask if anyone's seen a woman in middle years.

She's onto the freeway, jittering across lanes.

And why, he'll wonder, now that the kids are gone,

now that they're free to hit the road each spring.

She overtakes on automatic, clearing Carolina –

recalls the one dream he has left, of building a boat;

upriver in summer; dry dock in winter. The two of them.

An unforeseen calm settles with sundown: she longs

for nightfall on unbroken stretches of highway.

It's clear ahead as far as her eyes can see

.....Anne-Marie Fyfe's

                           Interstate is from her latest collection 

                 Understudies: New and Selected Poems, 2010