I Put My Books In The Bag (this has a weak ending, i think)

We drive so quickly. The bends
on the highway bend
for us. This love, forced
like a pillow into a pillow-
case. We eat green beans,
it is summer, we have sweet corn
sitting in the bed of the truck.
There are times when
your hands go slowly.
Like a train sometimes will.
Time won't pass. It's not
so leisurely in its movement
but plucks along like
a nylon strung guitar.
Pass by the many houses
on the way to you.
The brown one and the pond
beside it.