Idling in traffic, bass jacked
all the way up, the car shuddering,
the driver pretending not to notice,
his friends nodding to the beat—how easy
it is to hate them when you’re standing
out in the sun on the sidewalk, or some
country road in early spring. And then
you’re the one in the car.
A song takes you back, let’s you touch
what you couldn’t reach in silence.
Which means the song should be played
again and louder, as if that were the way
to live with disappointment. Perhaps
the soul is divided like this,
half desiring to hear itself listening,
half needing to be seized
and overwhelmed. And each remains fearful
of the other, the one who might
at any moment do something foolish—
the way a man suddenly drives
his car off the road, while someone else
just stands there, and watches it happen.
~ from The History of Forgetting (Penguin Books, 2009)
