The Little Volvo.

The little Volvo sits in the driveway.
My husband opens his newspaper.
It is Sunday. Time for him to see, to know,
To experience, the ways of the world.
Time for him to ponder the ways of things-
The ways of darkness;
The ways of reason. Without the us,
There is no void, there is no reason to speak in the void.

The color of his shirt changes from day to day.
He looks more handsome in a blue shirt,
He bought it at an Internet café.
My mind is caught between awake and sleeping.

He is me. He is the face within my soul,
The spirit that moves gracefully across the veil of stars.
The stars is the promised land,
Nelson Mandela wrote late one night in November,
While the wind crashed noisily outside the house.
My husband is like Mandela.

He knows. He speaks. He digs up graves.
He used to live in a house in Mississippi,
His mind torrential as waterfalls. He glistens when he sees.

The color of his shirt changes from day to day.
He speaks reason. There isn’t reason inside anything.
His mind is bitter waters-
He is cold, his mind is bitter,
He lives in cities that are bitter.

He tastes of salt.
I drink him down.