The Sunday before you left for good
we pulled over by the side of the road.
You grabbed the wheel as one might take another
who is not listening by the shoulders.
We spread out our lunch in an old coop
the count of chicken scratches left behind.
And spoke of taking wing together somewhere
while passing grapes mouth to mouth with our teeth
as the noise on the highway wound into us
drowned out all the rest like a kiss against the ear.
What was never said remained on our hands
and in the air invisible as a car moving at great speed.
Stephen Ruffus’s work has appeared in the Valparaiso Poetry Review, Hotel Amerika, The American Journal of Poetry, Woven Tale Press Magazine, and Poetica Review, which has submitted two of his poems for the 2023 Pushcart Prize. Also, he has work forthcoming in the I-70 Review. He’s originally from New York City and currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.
JMWW 