The seatbelt clicks unfamiliar weight

The seatbelt clicks, unfamiliar weight.

Pine air, faint, a little stale.

The dashboard, not mine. The steering wheel,

a different worn smooth.

A CD stuck inside the player:

something orchestral, too many strings.

His particular quiet.

His habit of leaving things.

My hand on the gear shift,

its plastic warm from his last drive.

A ghost of his grip.

It hums, a temporary alive.

This closeness without proximity,

a strange skin I wear

down the familiar road.

His specific kind of air.