He doesn't move his left hand from the wheel

He doesn't move his left hand from the wheel.

Not once in sixty miles.

The wedding ring catches the dashboard light

each time we turn,

and I realize I'm not watching the road.

His knuckles are paler than I remember.

Tension held in the same position,

the same grip he's probably held

for forty years.

The radio plays something he doesn't change.

I want to ask him something

but the silence feels intentional now,

the way he doesn't check the mirror,

the way his jaw stays set

like he's still driving

the same route home,

even though home isn't

where we're going.