Borrowed

I gave the car back this morning,

wiped the steering wheel clean.

A week in someone else's Civic

and I thought I was moving.

I drove to the grocery store,

the bank, the laundromat—

errands I'd been stacking like plates

in my own kitchen.

But the pedals were wrong.

The seat sat too high.

The air freshener was too sweet,

some vanilla lie hanging from the mirror,

swinging whenever I turned.

And the GPS—

she'd left her route saved:

home to work, work to home,

the same six miles,

the same exits.

I thought about how small her world was,

and then I thought about mine,

and then I didn't want to think anymore.

I returned the keys.

She asked if I enjoyed it.

I said yes.

The steering wheel was warm

when she got in.

It stayed warm because I'd been sitting there

long enough.