Its sprouts look like an onion bulb,
but smell like vanilla, or, in some strains,
cinnamon, the driver explained as we careened
along rain-slicked back roads to his country home.
I was still wearing my suit and had brought nothing.
Curtailing my long explanation, he pointed a hitcher’s thumb
toward the back seat and said, "you can wear my work shirt."
There, on a wire hanger, was a bright blue tie-dyed tee.
Quick as that, everything was cool.
And the world’s greatest song played on his cassette deck.