Those winter mornings in grad school
when we sat around drinking coffee and talking
about Derrida, I’d never actually read him.
What I loved was the brightness. The warmth.
Even when I used to drive my little brother
to Mrs. Winkie’s for his piano lessons,
and I’d wait in the car, listening to Elton John
on the radio, I never really paid attention.
Snow was falling. It was dark.
I couldn’t have told you any of the words.
I didn’t even have snow tires on that Chevy.
I was always slipping and sliding
my way home. The idea just never occurred
to me that anything could really happen.