Still Under the Wiper

I forgot about it

for two weeks—

yellow, folded, mute

under the blade.

Every morning I'd leave,

and the ticket would grieve

the windshield, unseen,

evidence of what I'd been.

Today I saw it.

Yellow like a wound,

the violation on it,

the fine in bold.

I could take it off.

I won't. I scoff

at myself for letting it stay,

for not paying,

for playing

the part of someone

who doesn't notice

the yellow notice

that proves I was there,

careless, aware

of nothing but my own

distraction. The rain

darkens the yellow. The stain

spreads. The numbers bleed

into paper. I need

to look away, but can't.

My car is a confession

now, yellow under glass,

proof of my transgression,

and I let it pass

without reaching. Without

paying. Without making it stop.

It stays. And I doubt

myself every time I walk up.