Blind Spot

He doesn't look at the mirror or the lane,

just edges the nose of the Buick right in.

He treats the whole highway like a personal vein

and the speed limit like a forgivable sin.

His fingernail taps a sharp, yellow beat

on the cracked plastic curve of the steering wheel.

He’s cursing the sun and the glare and the heat,

ignoring the way that the tires start to squeal.

I’m gripping the handle until my knuckles are white,

watching the trucks roar past on the side.

He hasn't used a signal since early last light,

just drifting along on a dangerous tide.

I caught my own hand doing that rhythm today,

tapping the dash while the light turned to red.

It’s a terrifying thing, the inherited way

we carry the ghosts of the things that were said.