Blind Spots

He takes the corner with a heavy hand,

as if the asphalt follows his command.

No blinker signals where he means to go,

the world is just a thing he happens to know.

He misses the turn for the hardware store

and grumbles a curse at the passenger door.

He shifts into reverse with a jagged thud,

ignoring the mirrors, the rain, and the mud.

The glass is tilted toward his own tired chin,

mapping the places where the years wore thin.

He won't look back to see the traffic stall;

he drives as if he’s the only one here at all.