Rest Stop, Mile 74

Past one in the morning when I saw it—

that sodium light, the orange kind

that makes an empty parking lot feel like a verdict.

One car. No movement. Someone behind

the wheel, just sitting. Engine off.

I drove past. The glass gave back the light

and nothing else. The radio went soft

on something I'd stopped hearing. The night

was that particular dark you get

on interstates that far from anything—

the kind that doesn't let

you look away from what you're passing.

Seven miles home. I kept thinking about the car.

The person in it, engine off, just still.

Whether they were resting. Whether far

from rest. Whether stopping was a skill

they'd learned that I haven't.

I drove through the dark.

They stayed in the orange.

I keep thinking about that.