While Talking to a Psychoanalyst at a Party

I imagine a restored Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud
with running boards, an oak trunk, the silver
eagle perched on the radiator, a dashboard
covered by ivory toggle switches edged in brass
and tiny red and green lights like a city at night,
the tufted leather in the back seat, well oiled
and burnished with age, as large and comfortable
as an analytic couch, my legs stretched out
for a long ride on U.S. Route 20, the old diners
and gas stations, the run-down motels and neon
signs, an endless blue sky filling the day,
and a night studded with stars, the driver
blocked from my view, our destination uncertain,
the engine humming, the ride so quiet, so slow.