for Jacobo, somewhere past Denver
Jacobo came on like the West itself
ragged, shining, already halfway gone
talking fast about everything at once,
cars, women, God, the next ride out
we were somewhere after Denver, I think,
or maybe before it… didn’t matter
the road stretched the same in every direction
and Jacobo said that was the point
he drove like the night was chasing him,
one hand loose on the wheel,
the other cutting the air, explaining something
he’d already moved past
we picked up strangers, dropped them,
forgot their names before the next town
but Jacobo remembered the feeling of it,
said that’s what counted
in San Antonio the lights burned low and yellow,
some saxophone crying out of a bar door
and Jacobo stopped just long enough to listen
not for the music, but for the life inside it
then we were gone again
always gone again
he kept saying it
the IT, the moment, the thing just ahead
like if we drove fast enough
we’d catch it before it disappeared
but it never waited
and neither did Jacobo
Bleu de minuit 