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are people who own convertibles,
and drive them on perfectly beautiful sunny days
without the top down, unable to feel joy like rest of us?

i’ve never owned a convertible,
but of given the choice on a day like today,
i’m quite certain i’d push the button to get the top down,
blast the le tigre song that pops up on my playlist
and let kathleen hannah remind me that
it’s never a good idea to take the safest path,
let the wind swirl in the cockpit and the sun
toast my forearms. get the music just loud enough
to be too loud, pushing the edge of the speed limit.

i remember renting that mustang from the garage
near our apartment in the tenderloin for the day,
because we both had off work and driving to big sur
in the white machine seemed the best way to cure
our collective hangover. we played wilco and
didn’t talk much, the splendour of the pacific ocean
rendering us speechless, until we arrived at the
henry miller museum. i had read most of his books
and felt important for having done so.

we were young and calling what we had love.

returning the car just before five
and back to days in a series of days
after that. maybe it was the novelty
of the experience. the extravagance of freedom,
but i’ll never understand people with convertibles
who drive with the top up.