Las Cumbres and Armita

Shoulders hunched forward, stomach in your chest,
another day on the road.
Counting minutes, counting kilometers,
and counting on backseat laughter
to raise your drooping eyelids.
When their eyes succumb behind you
yours follow the curves of the road
the skyline, drifting from rectangular patches
of green slanted cabbages to bright blue expanses,
and precarious gray fences that tease you about the vales below.

The sun sets and you count once again:
cars lined up like ants, buses spewing black fumes,
the low-droning hum of traffic the bass
to the backseat's revived running commentary.

You come home to his face:
lips curl downwards from rustic pleasure to an anonymous frown
(you don't always say the right thing),
his eyes change from country to city.