Ten and Two

Ten and two, like the manual said.

I've been watching those hands thirty-one years

and they've never moved, never gone loose —

not for weather, not for the long drive, not for fear.

He braked hard at the yellow and the lid

on my coffee gave and I burned my wrist.

He said: I saw it changing. Not sorry.

Not are you okay. The light. That's it,

the light was the point. I pressed my wrist

to the vent where the cold air came through.

The cup in the cracked holder, a rubber band

keeping the thing from splitting in two.

Two hours. Mile markers. His hands.

I kept my face toward the window glass.

He merged left without checking the mirror.

I didn't say anything. It passed.