We stop at the side of the road.
My wife, the navigator,
throws up her arms in despair.
We're at the point where map
and landscape speak different languages,
I grip tight to the wheel,
look at the flat land ahead, behind.
It's not that we disagree again.
But the world disagrees for us.
Instead of an argument,
some place in Iowa.
No angry words but blank faces
and a bunch of cows,
in the distance,
heads bowed, chewing the heads
off the grasses.