In The Yellow Jeep
The rain on the roof sounds like a kettle,
drummed. We have been here in it, in a hailstorm,
the wind pushed us right to left across six lanes.
The sun was breaking through the clouds:
Hail and sun and you in the seat
beside me, in your camouflage. I chose this Jeep
for you if you ever need to hit a tree
head on, but you missed all the trees
and only lost a mirror. It was the luck of my soldier
before he grew up and left.
Now I understand the plead: return. I keep your room
untouched, unfinished. The painting
on your table waits. Like me, you begin
too many projects, and all are unfinished.
Creation chaos has more comfort than endings.
You write there are too many push ups. We wait
for you to finish boot camp. Return.
The space is empty of your leaps down the stairs. The puzzle
that filled the dining room now hangs on the wall,
finished. The tank stand you were rebuilding is gone
from the center of the family room,
finished. The tank is filled with brackish water.
Three puffers and Chinese algae eaters flutter inside.
When you return we will all fly to meet you
and applaud the end of our waiting.
Beth Mink is an Industrial Electrician from Fishers, Indiana with a fabulously handsome husband, two wildly intelligent sons, three dogs and a yellow jeep.beep.beep.