Hazards

Your buckle sat in its slot,

still warm. I didn't touch it.

I clicked mine in

and the sound was the loudest thing

that had happened in days —

louder than the boxes,

louder than the door

you walked through without turning.

The hazards went red across the windshield.

Red. Dark. Red. Dark.

I watched that for a while.

A man in an orange vest

came around and knocked twice on the glass.

The sign said fifteen minutes maximum.

I'd been there twenty.

I know, I said.

I know.

I drove home with the radio off,

your side of the car still buckled,

the slot still warm.

The exit ramp. The street.

The particular dark of the garage.