The Unspoken Weight

I saw her at the pump, three cars down.

She waved a hand and I looked at my feet.

I know his suitcase is halfway across town

and their house is just a quiet, empty street.

I pulled the dipstick out to check the oil

and wiped the black sludge on a paper towel.

It’s not my life to watch it all uncoil,

or hear the neighbors’ long and bitter howl.

I kept my head down, staring at the grime,

the metal hot beneath the midday glare.

Knowing is a very quiet kind of crime

when you’re the only one who's standing there.