Sacrifice Of The Bass Line From That One Pixies Song

Ba[1] da[2] da[3] dun[4] dun[5] da[6] da[7] dun[8] dun[9] du[10] du[11] da[12] du[13] da[14] da.[15]

[1] All the way to Boston by back roads with the same CD stuck in the rental car, our voices start to give out after a time.
[2] My hand grows sweaty, and after lunch there is probably a little honey mustard somewhere in it, so for this I am sorry.
[3] You talk to the man behind the counter in Spanish, which was a surprise to me, but I recognize the lisp on “mayonesa,” you couldn’t stand it.
[4] We are very lost as soon as we left the turnpike but you smile with a poppy seed in your teeth and refuse to admit it, turning up the volume.
[5] I play along, naming the towns we were passing as if they were familiar, pointing at a courthouse or a fire hydrant and saying, “Oh, remember?”
[6] You had insisted on driving, I think, just to wear those sunglasses and float your arm out the window like a pilot.
[7] We have forgotten a couple things at home and are better off without them, don’t you think?
[8] A lost coil of hair makes its way out the window, and you don’t notice for nine miles.
[9] Your left arm is just a little redder than the right already.
[10] When it gets dark we pull over to hear the crickets just beyond the guardrail.
[11] Every time the chorus kicks in I can count on you to tap it out on the steering wheel.
[12] They must have just paved this road, I feel that if we fell asleep it would forgive.
[13] Our cigarette butts dance out holy orgies in the rearview mirror.
[14] I have never seen brighter brights.
[15] My ears pop when you are changing lanes.

Ten Questions For My Congressman

Why does the lake near Route 519 get so cold even in the middle of summer, so that my skin raises in protest, knowing fully well I will be there when it comes back down?

What can you do about the sun, which goes down behind the strip mall, mixing its luster with fast food signs, and the gas station attendants sneezing and smoking, looking up at it like discovering?

How can I make the sound that a car makes, in going over the bridge to my grandmother’s house, either to move a dresser or to celebrate another holiday?

Would you say the name of your friend, not knowing she was behind you, your lip getting caught in the wind, filling you with northern dust?

Am I still not tall enough to touch the top of the doorway at the supermarket as I get film developed, pictures I took without looking?

Can I really see church steeple from the next town over, or is that a water tower, and if so where does that water go?

Could you live in a place where your breath trails out behind you like the Metro-North longing to tip right into the Hudson?

When I stood outside of the municipal building, catching my breath, did I feel the sweat evaporate off of my body?

Who did I touch, making my way to the back of the restaurant to meet someone?

Should the rain sting my hand this way when I’ve rolled the window down to signal a turn?