right hand pointing

 

     
  Howie Good

Autumn Song

 


She flips through the CDs.
“What do you want to hear?”
I glance at her profile,
more familiar than my own.
I shrug. “Anything.”
Light streaks the windshield,
but I think I know where we are,
the storm behind us now,
and only the empty road
under empty trees ahead.

 

 

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