From the Fishouse

You never live in the worlds you save.
–The Atomic Man

I’ve got my elbow popped out the window, rubbing the lock,
my thighs sticking against the tattered leather. The AC

gave out eighty miles back, and the sweat on our arms coalesce
into steam stained with our scent. You’re looking

under the hood, pretending you know how to do more
than check the oil and wiper fluid. A few cars pass, but don’t stop

and I imagine riding along with someone else. Watching you
tinker with an engine you know nothing about, I consider

my mistake, loving you. Not because you look like an ape
when you think too hard, or that there are so many simple things

you still don’t know, but because people loved you, before me,
despite it. Somewhere there’s a woman – maybe a country

full of women – who still carry love for you, even though
I had to teach you how to peel an avocado and slip the pit

out without mashing the meat. I’m idling with you off I-10
in Tucson, wishing I knew more about your world before me,

and if you ever had to use an electric can opener, while you stare
at your Dodge, half frowning, as if you knew how to fix the damn thing.