Israel in Shotgun

For J.W.

Riding across burning macadam,
safe in this car,
my friend rests his feet on the side mirror
and dreams that angels crawl up his legs.

Hunched and steering, leather seats
collecting sweat, I lean forward to
cool my back, as the AC flutters
but can’t reach the heat.

I work so hard, and struggle to grow grass
while he cultivates roses and Jacob.

My hair long, with hints of red,
my soft-spoken passenger
grows a blonde beard —
almost invisible.

He sees a world I don’t understand,
is tickled by angels, while my face itches
from this thick hair, and the wind
never cools my sweating back.

But I am not jealous,
I drive with my brother.