Witness

He told me first—said it like I should know,

like being his passenger meant I was part

of something. The meter kept running slow.

I had no words. I played the part.

His hands gripped the wheel. The numbers climbed.

The city moved past. He didn't speak.

I could have said something, could have timed

something kind, but I felt too weak.

What do you say to a stranger's loss?

What fills the space between the seats?

The meter kept running. I took the loss,

paid too much, left him no receipts.

It wasn't mercy. It was just

the only honest thing I knew.

I rode his silence home. I must

have known there was nothing else to do.