Nobody, Hour Twenty-Two


Off the map,
off the charts,
in a red roadster
on a road to nowhere.
Nothing, and
nobody (who are you?)*
would drive that red roadster
to the middle of nowhere
without bad intent:
a spent lover
to leave
on the side of the road,
or a body to hide
in the bog.
She’s somebody
in that red roadster,
pretending to be
so the next time
she rides through
she’ll put the top down,
let the wind
play with her curls,
but on this trip,
this time,
she’s nobody.

*references Emily Dickinson’s poem I’m Nobody, Who Are You?

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