Please don’t ask me
to drive you home.
Please don’t tell me
where you live.

Please don’t get lost
on those winding roads on a bitter
cold evening. I used to transpose
wind chills and windshields.

Please don’t tell me
how to drive. I drove for hours
through the streets of New York
in my dream last night.

Please don’t laugh. No, I didn’t
crash. Yes, I closed my eyes
when I couldn’t see
what lay beyond

the next bend. Yes, I know
New York streets don’t bend.

Please don’t ask me
to turn up the heat
in the cab of the old pickup
parked in the back.

Please don’t tell me
I’m hot. Only I know

how I feel. Please don’t ask
for my number. Cell reception sucks
in the middle of an evergreen forest—
or a nightmare.