Rear View

The brake lights are a red wall

on the ninety-five.

The pharmacy closes in ten minutes

and I’m trapped behind a delivery truck.

To my right, a kid in a minivan

is pressing his forehead into the glass,

leaving a gray blur of skin oil.

I remember that heat.

How the blue vinyl used to bite

the backs of my legs,

peeling away with a sound like tape

every time we turned a corner.

We were going somewhere, maybe,

but I only ever saw the headrests

and the dust motes

suspended in the stale, recycled air.