Driving Saturdays

Stop signs one to few
bending metal steps
while a breeze of
Saturday traffic

smokes through crevices of
paint-chipped window
frames, and so a
billion grains of light fall
like dust

when the air seems
insipid as daylight dreams

it is not hot enough

the gas station
full moon afternoon
“go faster”
he whispers
like it matters

sunshade mousse
tufts upwards,
“take me somewhere’s
grandma”

pink blouse
bottom in
her wheelchair.