How lonely can she be driving subdivision
streets that cloverleaf and curl into cul-de-sacs,
where houses slouch in alternating shades
of brick and shadows tip across backlit blinds.
Where housecats rub nubby spines along
the maples' jagged bark and possums steal

through her headlights' sweep, each solitary
in its cross. Where the nearest highway
is a loop, and the sun, when it wakes, is a
bloodshot eye watching her drive and drive.