The day passed like soup;
me and my car
rolling by trees and reservoirs,
hills and apple orchards.

It’s like soup because
when mom makes soup
it’s a pot of leftovers:
The greens
The rice or pasta
The chicken
and then water and potatoes,

all of it glides by my broad windshield
and down my throat.
I’d take a bath in it
but being in a different
angle of sun
is enough.


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