Lying on the back seat of the green minivan,
the gray vinyl sticking to my thigh,
I close my eyes.
I open the window and smell the wind.  I smell
pop-tarts; I smell the century ending,
the hum of my nerves and the irregualar
rhythm of my heart.  I smell the
coldness of dead winter streets, and I see the
face of Galen,
lying in his casket.  I hear his
father talking to my friend, saying that "this is
not Galen, he is not in that box:

he is out there somewhere looking at all of this,
laughing at us."

I smell the tears running down Galen's father's face.
I smell the fear and regret of the Way Things Are,
invading my mind: the most memorable of all the senses,
smell,
not letting me forget what I want to forget, not
letting me wrap up death in a package,
file it away,
throw it onto a space shuttle, have it flown out
to Jupiter, dump it off of the shuttle, 
let it float away and pollute other atmospheres with
rank bitterness,
open sadness,
and regret, the foulest stench of them all.

I am falling,

a tear sliding down my nose,

into South Dakota: 
a plain of longness, openness.

Sleeping is good: I will sleep, I will fall off,
I will not remember This.  I will drive until I
forget,

6,000 miles to go.