I picked you up from the dentist in Halifax
in a rental car with no roof on it.
What a rush, to do something familiar,
in an unfamiliar way.
I remember the look on your face as we crossed the Nova Scotia border,
the sleepy giants towering above us, swinging their lazy arms in the fog.
We sat roadside in Sackville, eating burgers in a silence
only broken by your telling of a joke.
Your voice was heavy from milkshake;
from the dentist’s medicine.
The joke was this:
“What do you call a race with no finish line?”
Thunder cracked overhead
and a sunshower darkened the sidewalk
We put the roof up on the car.
The weight of the unfinished joke,
heavy around our necks.
Self-Isolation – Day 17: Time to change jeans maybe.