We pull cords across the lumps of our mattress
and strap it—encased in plastic—to the roof of our car.
Neither of us could push its awkward weight
up and over the windshield alone. I couldn’t. You couldn’t.
Together we secure our bed and begin our descent,
the music of rivers spins against our tires.
Your right hand is stretched out the window
as you tap the roof rack, hold the bungee cord.
The ball of my foot, firm, presses the gas pedal,
alternates with a pump on the brakes.
We ease into traffic, weave, rear-view blocked,
merge through near misses onto the highway
then make a quick exit, back to backroads,
where we hold a cautious pace.
The edge of the tarp that covers our treasure.
flip flaps against your window.
Our stuffed bedding, a shared concern,
may be less stable than we thought
when we made our first turn. Still partners,
a hundred miles to go, we change seats. You drive,
I monitor the cords, quiet the slapping tarp.
The road stretches out like a tape measure
as we touch the radio dial, together.
I’m your sidekick. You are mine.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 3.
Lao Rubert lives in Durham, North Carolina. Her poems are forthcoming – or have appeared – in About Place Journal, Atlanta Review, Barzakh, Collateral, Mantis, Muleskinner, Pinesong Award Anthology, Poetry East, Spillway, The Avenue, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. Rubert holds an M.A. in English Literature from Duke University and has spent a career working to reform the criminal justice system.
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