Smaller in the Glass

He wouldn't let me take the last box.

That's who he is.

Still.

Two blocks out I caught a red light

and looked up into the mirror—

there was a face I didn't place

for a full second.

Jaw set, eyes already somewhere past it,

the expression of a man mid-decision,

mid-goodbye.

Then I knew.

Behind me the parking lot was small.

He was still at the curb

with his hand partway raised—

not a wave exactly, more like

he'd started something

and thought better.

He got smaller.

I watched him get smaller

in the only place I can see

what I'm leaving

by having to look away.