Love Stamps from our Birth Place

Love Stamps from our Birth Place

I drove along Highway 45 where I spent several mornings

gritting my small teeth

behind big rig tractors,

or forcing myself to smile behind the arse of a steady stop school bus

late, late, late

for work. But today, I turned down a country road near Rigby High School,

home of the Trojans

I let the sun bake me in his green fleece coat

in front of some farm house with a gravel run

and a tired, red pickup.

I hoped no one would bother me

asking what I was doing parked in his or her or their driveway

Was I lost? Broke-down? Trespassing? Destroying the dried up grass?

Yes, all of the above-- I prepared myself to say as I waited,

phone between my legs,

for her call.

I shoved my way out of the fleece coat when the sun made

my eyelids droop. Too heavy for the heat.

I hope she wouldn’t call, so I traced outlines in the workbook

ready in the passenger's seat, purple pen at its side.

She and I would probably discuss ways to go for walks,

or drives in the giant neighborhood, or take a nap

next to his cat, or phone a friend, or even sing a song--

to ease all the behavior inside me.

I would tell her a bit about Josh

how I’m mad, or no, scared

that I am making a huge mistake.

or leap of faith, something.

I called him instead while stepping out of the car.

squinting my eyes, and leaning against the window.

“She’ll call, she’ll call, I’m sure...”

“How about you call her?” he said.

But I did call her, even left a message.

I stepped back into the car, waited five more minutes

in the only decent spot for T-mobile reception,

then I drove back to Lewisville,

where I tried to exchange these freedom and liberty stamps

my mom mailed us for our wedding invitations.

I planned to trade them for several sheets of “love” stamps

at the dinky post office, where history is told through five

black and white photos hanging on the gray wall:

our birthplace, where we settled, where our parents were raised,

where we have grown, and where we stay to die.

The post woman only offered me more of the american flag stamps,

so I drove back to the warehouse 500 ft. away

I clocked in and settled back into my desk.

she called me.

but I didn’t answer.