The car was busy
falling apart,
a bungee cord held
the back bumper on.

I had been driving
for I don't know
how long,
alternating coffee
to ginger beer,
because that's all
I had.

Through cities and towns,
blurred in the rearview,
like ex lovers.

The radio was busted, too,
and I am just a wishman,
reading with one eye while driving,
an existentialism novel,
along warzones
and eventually into
the city I call branch home.

I parked the car
in front of my favorite
bookstore and left it
with the keys still in the ignition.

Strand Bookstore,
8 miles of books,
12 miles of loneliness,
a like and 1866 miles later.

I will promote this poem
after the journey
and go to sleep,
hoping she reads it.