Changing Drivers

Their nondescript, late-model car 
is pulled off on the windy shoulder, 
its doors flung wide, and the driver 
gets out, gripping the roof with a hand 
and lifting himself just as the woman 
gets out of her side, both of them stiff, 
both kneading the small of their backs, 
rolling their heads on their necks, 
squinting into the midday sun. 
Then the driver starts out around 
the front bumper, swinging his legs 
as if they weren't his, his thin hair lifting, 
just as the woman straightens herself 
and sets out around the trunk, holding 
her permanent's white curls in place 
with both hands, both man and woman 
calling a few words back and forth 
across the axis of the car's hot roof 
as they stoop and fit themselves inside 
and the car's springs settle a little, 
and each of them reaches a long way out 
to pull the doors shut, her door first 
then his, and they rock and shift, 
fastening their belts, then both of them 
lean forward, almost simultaneously, 
and peer into their side-view mirrors 
to see whatever is bearing down 
from wherever they've been, and together 
they ease out over the crunching gravel 
onto the highway and move on.

--Ted Kooser