Borrowed

Her daughter's car seat in the back.

Crumbs between the cushions.

A toy—small, plastic—wedged

so tight I can't pull it free.

I'm driving to a funeral

in someone else's daily routine.

The radio is tuned to a station

I don't listen to. The air freshener

smells like a person I barely know

anymore. Haven't been in this car

in months.

I reach back and try the toy again.

It doesn't move.

I stop trying.

Just drive. Just sit in the middle

of someone else's afternoon,

their child's small forgotten thing,

the way they keep their car warmer

than I'd keep it, the route

they take that I'll never take again.

The toy stays where it is.

I stay where I am.