Center Line

He rides the center line, his left hand

loose at twelve o'clock. The wedding ring

clicks against the plastic every turn.

He brakes too late. He's always braking late.

I grip the door handle and wait.

He signals after he's already turned,

talks property taxes while drifting

toward a mailbox. The lumber

in the truck bed shifts on every curve.

He'll never build that deck.

We both know. The two-by-fours

will silver by the shed

and he'll find something new to collect

from the hardware store on an ordinary day.

But he wanted the drive, the ordinary way

he moves through the world—

too much trust, not enough looking,

his hand loose on the wheel

like a man who believes the road

will hold him.

And so far.

So far it has.