The Rearview Mirror

I get in and he asks where I'm going.

A long way from here, I say.

He nods like he's knowing

something I can't convey today.

We drive in silence. City lights

slide across his dashboard slow.

The coffee cup, half-full and bright,

sits wedged in the holder. I don't know

if he sees what I'm carrying,

something heavy. At a red light,

he turns to me in the mirror, staring:

Are you okay? His question cuts right

through me. Something in my face.

I tell him I'm fine. He doesn't

believe me, but he shows grace—

doesn't push. We just let it pass.

We keep driving toward somewhere

long away. The coffee cup stays

cold in the holder. There's care

in his silence. We drive this way.