T.R. Poulson
Letter to a Route Named 2C
—confession of a UPS driver
I love you when you show me slivers
of Pacific, of San Francisco Bay, when your fog drips through thick
needles, wild. I love your dogs who wag at gates—I deliver
treats to tongues. I love your storms, though they slick
your driveways muddy and uproot trees. I love your dead
ends backdropped by distant breakers. I love your calves who slip under
their mama’s bellies to watch me drive. I love your red
blisters of sunset in gray. I love you, even when you encumber
me with too much of you. When muscles burn
with every stop. When curved roads darken. When boxes jumble
on shelves like pain. When I punch
the clock at nine PM. I fist bump coworkers who taught me turns
and numbers. Where to park to pick up fallen pieces. I fumble
love among things other hands have touched.