Night-Driving. by D.S. Maolalai

Night-driving.

By D.S. Maolalai

the sleeping night-light of the city,

crisped and tinkled on the sea

and folded over Dublin

like currency forgotten

in a pocket in the laundry.

they put out palm trees 

here – I don't know why – 

to make the beach 

feel beachy, I guess,

or perhaps

to be cruel to foliage.

I liked driving out to you

that way, out toward Bayside,

over the coast road at night

and jamming my hand in the radio,

desperately trying to seek out

some song I was able to sing.

driving at night

is the only feeling; the whole road

your own, gold 

from the streetlights

flowing over your hands

and then plunging them

dark again

in shadows

like buckets of caviar. 

I liked it then

and still do,

even without the 

you at the end anymore;

I don't have a car

but I try to find reasons to borrow one – 

I move what needs moving

and come up with an excuse then to keep it

overnight.

the road

black as a river

gels forward. 

I take it

and roll like a whale.