The radio traded places with the GPS.
we were wherever the Mountain Goats felt like taking us
the GPS lady read poetry
by Yusef Komenyakaa
the windshield wipers carved chunks out of the night
nothing was doing its job
our mouths made trumpet noises
whenever we attempted speech
in the Ford Escape
You turned in long sonic passages
which I punctuated with sad, drawn out notes that took all of my breath
we spoke actual words with actual saxophones
they had supplied us
It was all going to take some getting used to.