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From the backseat of a ‘91 Carolla

I told you “No.”
Hoping that you or the car
would explode. But you just turned your eyes
to your shoes. Which meant
your trips down south must have been
worth it. Where you didn’t shower
for three months and you slept in tents
on the cold, hard ground. The ground
will break you. You can find God on that
ground and you did.
You came back with a dry
mouth and a clear throat.
A coin and a prayer in your
wallet. I was surprised to see
your head shaved when we
picked you up. You hiding
behind a long sleeve shirt
in hot July. As if we could forget.
When you got in the car you
put on that song and I
told you “No”
But you did not explode.