Borrowed Time

The mirror shows my collarbone,

the seat is notched for someone else.

I’m sitting in the drive alone,

listening to the engine’s pulse.

Under the seat, a receipt lies thin,

for gum bought back in early June.

I pick it up, I tuck it in

a pocket for the afternoon.

He’s coming back to take the wheel,

to slide the seat back three more clicks.

I’m losing what I didn’t steal,

a week of life I couldn't fix.