Reflector

The lawyer on the billboard has a smile

made of orange light and peeling vinyl.

He wants to know if I've been hurt,

as if the answer isn't a foregone conclusion.

The turnpike is a vein of wet asphalt

pumping diesel and coffee toward the coast.

The truckers pass with a roar that shakes the frame,

their taillights like dying embers in the dark.

In the side-mirror, the glass shivers

in its plastic housing.

It shows me the white lines

being swallowed by the shoulder,

one by one,

until there's nothing left behind me at all.