Blind Spot

The glue gave up somewhere outside of Dayton.

The heat through the glass turned the resin to syrup,

and the mirror just slid down the windshield

to die on the padded dash.

It sits there now, the plastic housing

vibrating against the vents like a trapped moth.

I can't see the road behind me anymore,

just the empty backseat and a smear of black goo.

The sun is too bright to look forward,

and there's no way to see what's gaining on me.