Sam Cooke and the Last Days of Summer

“Sam Cooke and the Last Days of Summer”

In these,
the final days of August,
we’re sliding around the curves of a winding two-lane highway,
rattling through man-cut canyons in a classic car,
Sam Cooke’s soul is pouring through rattling speakers,
straining and popping to be heard
over the wind whipping through the open windows.

In these,
the cool, cloudy final days of the summer,
the brown and green of the Wyoming prairie is unending,
the skyline is punctuated with telephone wires.
The wind is thick as water, as thin as sunlight.
Red-dirt rocks tower overhead.
I strain my neck through the window to see the summits.

The engine hums a soft,
lulling death-rattle for a quickly-fading summer.

...

The girl behind the wheel is wearing a cowboy hat,
smiling, and saying something about the music.
I see her lips form the words “song” and “amazing.”
I agree, even though I can’t make out her words
over the rush of the wind,
and the buzz of Sam Cooke on the radio.

In these,
the last days of a rainy and bittersweet summer,
I watch her lips, moving like water over pebbles.
I can’t still hear what she’s saying,
but I watch her smile at me
as the speedometer eases past 70,

Summer, suddenly, without warning,
feels infinite.