What I Called White

Seven years I called it white.

The word required nothing —

just settled in the way a name

will when you've stopped the bothering

of looking. I drove it daily.

I said the word and never checked.

Then today, an unfamiliar lot,

and walking back: I wrecked

a second on a car I didn't know

before I knew it. Mine.

The hood under flat November —

the paint along the line

of the hood: not dirty. Not

in need of anything. Just through

with being white. The color of old paper.

Of something that had been true

once, and had gone on changing

while I held the word in place.

Seven years. I drove home.

Said the word. Tried to face

it against the car. They didn't fit.

The word still in my mouth.

The car still in the lot somewhere.

Both going south.

I called it white.