When the pavement is iron on fire
and there is rain
steam comes off the road like breath
as though there was a great holding in
and the rain was permission
telling us to release.
I used to think that steam was ghosts
on the road, meant to scare us
or warn or just watch.
Ghosts of memory.
I see now that they are one in the same.
That breath, that release, that memory
that tricks and watches is the same.
One day that mist will part to reveal
a dance floor, and I will step out with
fancy shoes to take my turn.
To be driven through.