Sunset with No Motel in Sight

A red inflammation of the skin
of the sky, a privacy terribly exposed.

Then my mother pressed
the button

for the car radio, as we could not bear
the silence. My father found

an oldies station, songs of the sixties,
their early marriage.

The sky kept up
its awful red in that sudden fleshly crease.

I was the passenger, unable to conceive
such beauty.

We kept traveling, and the sun kept going down.
What else could it do?