The Math of Leaving

The odometer clicks a round, hollow number

just as I cross into a different state of mind.

I’ve spent more years sleeping in this metal lumber

than in the bedroom I’m supposed to leave behind.

Three hours and forty-two minutes of fuel

until I have to answer for the way I’ve changed.

The GPS is a digital god, precise and cruel,

showing how the geography of love is rearranged.

The red readout glows on the dashboard clock,

a bloody eye watching my coffee go cold.

I’m idling at the pump, trying to pick the lock

of why coming home always feels like being controlled.