The Light Is Doing Something

I meant to go inside.

Park, cut the engine, go in,

figure out dinner.

The engine was off.

I just hadn't moved.

The windshield has been dirty for weeks—

not emergency-dirty,

just the accumulated film

of road spray and dried rain

that needs a real wash.

The streetlight came through it

blurred and orange,

the neighbor's hedge made soft,

the parked cars along the block

made uncertain.

I know what it was.

Grime and refraction.

The light wasn't doing anything.

I was tired enough

to let it look different.

I checked my phone after.

Twenty-two minutes.

Nothing missed.

I looked back at the streetlight

through the kitchen window when I got in—

clear glass, ordinary view—

and it was just a streetlight.