CENTRIPETAL
JENNY ELLIOTT THE E ND
we drove on every rural road you could find in New Hampshire, the highway was an unnecessary rush, i sat beside you in your shiny red Chrysler and we listened to Sinatra for hours, you told me the same old jokes, i laughed anyway, we stopped and ate egg salad sandwiches, you put salt on your watermelon, i still think that’s weird, you said you didn’t feel any pain when you were with me because these were “feel good times,” when we both caught colds from the same drafty diner, we shared the free tissues the dialysis center gave you, and talked about what you liked to call the “simple things,” in time, i drove your Chrysler alone, you rode cold with an unfamiliar driver, they said you were a ‘quiet man, a private man, a man who loved his home cooking.’ you felt no pain that day, but i cried, these were not feel good times, and as i dove over every familiar bump, as i passed all the same fallen trees, I missed you.
ELLIOTT
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