Still In There

It came from a gas station off exit nine,

my father's hand across the counter, cash.

I stayed in the car. I remember the sign

for the exit, the argument, the ash

of his silence after. Something I'd said.

I don't know what. The road went flat

for forty miles. His hands. I watched ahead.

We got home. The corkscrew after that

went in the drawer—dead batteries,

a pen that hadn't worked in years, a key

for nothing. The arm that frees

the cork snapped the first use. He

kept it. Twenty years. Last week

I cleared the subletter out—the drawer

mine again to open. The creak

of the cabinet. The bright scar

of the surviving arm.

His profile on the highway.

The exit sign.

I put it back.