On the Interstate

Life happens in flashes.
I write it down on Post-it notes.
Bugs splatter to their deaths on the windshield.
He asks me
“When we die, why the earth doesn’t die with us?”
Farmland speeds by.
The wheels of the minivan hum too loudly.
I shout about things.
(It is dying, love–just more slowly than you.)
Behind me he wonders
Why dogs don’t talk.
They do grow up while we’re not looking.
We’re on the interstate.
My fingers find a sticky pen under my seat.