You’ll be six months in Europe
I have your permission to drive your car,
it’s an investment on your part. 
On your return, I’ll pay you back with gratitude.
I notice though you didn’t say,
kiss Michelle for me at least twice a week until I return.

Your car is much more than I could ever afford.
I just hope I don’t crack it up.
By the way, Michelle’s now seeing someone else,
Or was that just another one of your arrangements.

Every week or two, a postcard arrives.
Venice. Paris. Vienna.
You leave no old world stone unturned.
Of course, I send no postcards.
“Wish you were here” would be a lie.

I turn heads when driving your machine down Main Street.
And Michelle dumped guy number one
and is moving onto number two.
Surely that wasn’t part of the plan.
But then again who knows.

For every map of Europe you run your pen across,
there’s probably a diagram of life
tacked up to the walls of your brain.

To be honest the novelty of the car
wore off around about the same time
you crossed the Rubicon.
And I’ve heard Michelle’s not seeing anybody now.
She’s waiting for you to return.

The car’s in the garage mostly.
Michelle stays home, watches TV.
So don’t worry.
Your life here is as you left it –
which, in itself, is quite a journey.

© John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.