Rear View

The station wagon in front of me

has a forehead smudge on the side pane.

It’s been twenty years, but I can see

the way the humidity looks like rain

against the glass. My thighs would stick

to the cracked vinyl, peeling away

with a sound like tape. I felt sick

from the gas fumes and the long delay.

You can’t open the windows from back there.

You just watch the map fold and unfold,

trapped in the heat of your own hair,

waiting for someone to do what they’re told.