We flew through a thunderstorm on our way into
Pittsburgh, landing without incident, but a hailstorm
descended, delaying our bags.
When we got into the Town Car, both the driver and his
wife’s well-timed pot roast were burning.
When he started driving, the baby started screaming.
She wouldn’t stop screaming.
The label peeking from below the driver’s cap left a red mark
on his scalp. We were the worst people
he had ever known.
Pittsburgh, late April. Cold as we drove past industrial parks
outside the city. Cold as the setting sun burnished mirrored
She wouldn’t stop crying.
I leaned over her car seat. Said, Every person in this car is
upset right now, but you are the only one screaming.
We drove out of some sort of tunnel, everyone quiet now,
smiling, over the yellow bridges into Pittsburgh.