Driving

My new husband is a writer, a good one,

but sometimes he takes time from writing

to drive me around.  He knows I'm not a good driver,

that my mind wanders, that I am reliving

past events, imagining things I might have done

or said differently when I should be looking 

at the car in front of me, paying attention

to the color of the traffic light, the speed limit, 

he knows how many nights I've dreamt of dying 

in a crash, laid out on the street, no goodbyes.

When friends and colleagues visit, he drives them 

around for me as well, whistling and humming,

as happy as happy can be, and I am happy too,

a driven woman, to be now driven by one I love.  

When he tells me, driving, one day that he feels 

more important driving than writing, 

I want to say to him that writing is like driving, 

that poems always drive us somewhere, 

often places we don't want to go, that good poems 

are like good drivers, we trust them, they will

get us somewhere and back  safely,

but I don't say it, I don't want him to get

in a car accident thinking too deeply about driving:

for him, it's just a matter of  being useful, 

doing something for one who hardly ever 

lets anything be done for her, it's a matter 

of  keeping me alive.