Area of a Sandvichensis Circle

I feel as if I’m circling around when I signal, pull over, and idle while they climb in.  Mostly male, urgent about the door, more expert about the island than I will ever be.  They know the temperature of the air, if the rain has become mud, if there’s a lava cricket sound or a coqui sound.  Which fruit is dropping.  In my car I do not know these, do not notice.  I get lost in their rushes of silence, remember my new pimples, the rim of the coffee cup.  Glad for N.P.R.  Renee Montagne, Mara Liasson.  Steve Inskeep’s voice more familiar than my own.

The mean astrologer hasn’t been around and I used to pick him up daily.  The one guy from San Francisco who said he remembered always seeing Richard Brautigan “like Mark Twain with his mustache.”  The senior nurse with heavy bags.  The scavenger, Kevin, needing rides to Nanawale to make the coffee before the early meeting.  Michael, a healer, self-described tapper, “up and down the chakras” had a little trumpet tucked under his arm.  The chicken guy with two fancy hens, fluffy legs.  One octogenarian, camping at McKenzie, his dog Hero, groceries, a small can of propane.  Enough for a pot of water, a package of hot dogs. What of it?  What of me just driving past so I don’t get into the same conversations, the resulting gratitude for my steady job, electricity, my dry clothes. An area too rectangular, a landscape where this formula would not work.