Dad used to take the family on long car trips—usually, somewhere rural: where woods, forest, and signs of beware for moose lurked on every goat path. Sitting in the back of the Ford Station Wagon, I would stare at a tree intently. Zeroing in on one leaf, pinecone, or needle that obediently was hanging on for dear life, my inner self would take property of that stare. I am you; you are me…just for this moment of dual ownership.
Then the car would drive away, still staring…absorbed on keeping our private partnership, until the stoic figure was out of sight. Driving for hours, viewing the same landscape, just within another area, I would start the process again.
Another leaf, pinecone, —my abstract friends for an instant.
Five hours in back of the yellow monster, I must have had a hundred to a thousand private relationships.
Never told a soul about my quiet acquaintances.
Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print since 1993. He is the author of 15 books/chapbooks, including Wolf Whistles Behind the Dumpster, which was released in November, courtesy of Roadside Press. He has been nominated three times for best of the web and has read his works throughout the United States. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura and dog, Bella.