The Drive Home

small gray clouds buttressed
billowy pure white clusters in
the sky repeating themselves
again and over and forever in the crisp blue
of so much blueness that
I questioned its reality in
the autumn like sun of the highway,
each cloud was like an x-ray Russian
doll puffed and shrinking like
the ouroboros never-ending until
the final speck of madness atomized
into the abyss,
                   *
                         I thought of your
body, heavenly in my arms, tanned skin,
soft and moist on my lips,
                   *
                                           the road
poured out at the off ramp before I
lost the clouds and the thought,
rushing for traffic lights to sit
and breathe and focus on the colors,
clear and unbiased,
                    *
I've led a happy life with you
but I've not led a happy life.