We’re racing across Charles on a cloudy day,
wind pressing newspaper to store windows,
people in gray and black raincoats shoot past
in clumps of threes and fours.
Now we’re standing on a patch of beach by an ocean
that we’ve never seen before,
and you’re throwing pieces of broken shells
as far as you can into the water.
We’re on a highway in Wyoming
and you’re rolling the spare tire toward me.
We watch it roll down the embankment,
moving quickly away from us.
In an open field outside Wichita,
we spot shooting stars in darkening sky.
I’m wishing on them.
747s, you say. Russian satellites.
You tell me things change.
You turn it like a lock.
Pfefferle, W.T. “Satellites,” Hayden’s Ferry Review 32 (Summer 2003).