The Vanishing Point

The boxes are stacked in the back like a burial mound.

I don't need to look at the passenger seat

to know exactly how much space you aren't taking up.

I reach up to tilt the mirror, and the glass bites back.

There’s a chip in the silvering, right in the center,

a jagged black star that divides my face.

One eye looks at the road ahead,

the other is stuck on the porch light I forgot to turn off.

The house is shrinking now, caught in the vibrating frame.

It turns into a gray speck, then a blur, then a memory.

I keep driving until the mirror shows nothing

but the empty asphalt and the dark.