I drove alone through the farmland
of central New York – the open vistas
and steep drops – towns with names
like Lyle unexplored, their secrets hoarded,
as I was hoarding my own secret
then. I-88 was empty as always and I
followed its long high valley, driving
away from you. We had not yelled
or broken mere things. I did not cry.
I drove fast, but not recklessly.
I stopped for a nap before Albany,
a middle-aged woman sleeping alone
in an aging Geo Prism. For a few more
miles I hoped I could just drive away.