You twist the straw wrapper around your finger
but your phone doesn’t ring and my bladder holds,
we’re still talking an hour later
you finish everything you ordered,
we pull into rush hour, bumper to bumper
but you guide me off clogged Route 27
through subdivisions of Cape Cods
like the one where we lived when you were born
I couldn’t wait to move from,
their handyman dormers and patios,
inflatable pools, chain-link fences,
squirrels and butterflies nailed to pastel siding.

You haven’t driven this town in years,
not sure precisely but feeling your way,
expecting the right hook ahead to empty
into Old Post Road—it finally does—
we’re on Route One, sailing home
past traffic headed the other way.