Old Woman Driving

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She lives on a street of white haired men 
with time for hosing the cracks. 

She goes to funerals amid people 
whose names she cannot remember, 
only the places they sat 
once. 

The necessary, fierce details, 
where are they? 

She files ruthlessly through what 
she knows was there: 
the word for rapture, what it means 
to wait too long for a door, 
the idioms of love, the caterpillars 
of doubt, his brown hair, 
new driveways. 

Only to find when steering past agitation
down the repaved street 
where she was born, 
the music of unwarped vision. 

Retrieving without need, she obtains
the name for dandelion 
and Daniel 
and denial. 

Way past the washings 
of self disdain: 
Beyond the pale comradery 
of old men comparing fertilizers
and hubcaps: 

At the wheel 
she is taken everywhere by surprises
familiar as the taste 
of warm white bread.