It is so highway

no lights dark

up in Bromont

mist on the lights

skiing in the glimpse

of no stars in the sky.

who needs traffic lights

when we drive so safely

coming back from Sherbrooke

videotaping 300 metre runs

and feeling proud to be a mama

and a papa rather than anything

else we have ever been.

And we have been plenty bad

bountiful good,

saddened red, careful yellow,

non-stop green,

turn off your lights

you don’t need

them in my dark.

Two more hours to go

and satellite radio

entertains us

as my stupidty never ends

and you make me laugh so hard

I piss on myself.

What is poetry you ask?

Everything you can’t see, I reply.