The gravel snake

of this road

sheds snow like a skin,

yet each season

I can trace each groove,

a pair of dimpled lips

kissed by the uniform

width of each pick-up.

Each season

my Mitsubishi and I

run bumpy, slippery kisses

with our small frame

just outside those lines.

Her belly is bruised

with the gravel;

once, in a deep freeze,

a long cracked scar

whipped across her windshield.

Each mechanic tells me:

“You’re not made for that road.”

She’s been shaking lately,

steering wheel trembling

while she speeds up.

You call me from California,

tell me, I’ll fit those roads,

can drive your car.

Each day, each season,

we struggle

from our driveway,

to almost-find the grooves

we fit in.