If I needed a name for yesterday,
I would call it the last exit
on Alligator Alley.
 
Iron tinged clouds hang
heavy on the horizon— 
behind me, saw grass and reptiles
 
lurk on the banks of the canals
while overhead, turkey vultures
make circles in my rearview mirror.
 
I told you a story 
about my childhood
but made the whole thing up;
 
you played with the radio
then fell asleep, your head
resting on the window
 
fogging up the glass;
the road ahead unfurling
into some blank landscape
 
I filled with the sound
of your breathing,
car chases, and a clutch 
 
of stars I draw against
the darkening sky, connecting
the dots and calling 
 
the constellations after the names
we made up for ourselves:
points of interest on a stolen map.