The Parking Lot

The truck is still here, parked crooked

in the southwest corner where the sun hits hard.

Same year as his, maybe—2003 or 2004.

The color's gone the way rust goes,

that orange-brown blooming across the passenger door

in a pattern you've studied before

without meaning to, without wanting to.

You stood there this morning for seven minutes.

A woman walked past twice and didn't ask if you were okay.

She was right not to.

The hood's dented where he dented it,

or at least that's what you're telling yourself.

The dent is in roughly the same place,

caught the same way by whatever hit it

years ago when he was driving

and you were maybe still calling him.

He moved to Colorado.

That was five years.

The last time you heard his voice

was four years ago.

The truck sits here and doesn't care.

It doesn't need to remember him.

It just continues,

metal holding metal,

rust spreading like it has a reason,

like it's trying to spell something

in a language you're finally learning to read.