Patsy

. Do you drive on fire, beneath evening trees seeing those those photos, of your family long deceased, slipping beneath the road, dusty places along the wires, dancing on the breeze, homing like a pigeon flyer, settling on the stones, kids kicked on the street, another of Uncle Joe, the father alongside who died, so young his wife screamed, Why, Sunday faces looking inspired, houses bought under Kennedy, moving like you wouldn't mind, a sense of ease