Nate Logan

We Could Be Looking For The Same Thing

Every tumbleweed comes from a different mom,
you say as Isaac sings. His phantom is in the backseat—

his voice a nail driven into the wooden fence
that’s followed us since Marfa. Your hand windsurfs

because coffee grounds keep snuggling between your long,
unringed fingers. This I keep a constant watch on,

but say nothing. California is so far behind us now.
You don’t reach for the oh-shit handle when I nudge

you in that direction. I’ve wiped my hands on my pants
so many times, there’s a rainbow where the blues used

to be. The closer we get, the balder the gas stations.
I hope I don't come across as a coyote in your eyes.