The Pass

The wiper blades were struggling with the sleet

and my registration was three months dead.

I saw the cruiser parked out on the street

and felt the familiar panic in my head.

The officer just looked and didn't move,

he waved a gloved hand through the freezing dark.

He didn't need to check or need to prove

that I was just a target or a mark.

I followed the red smear of the lights in front,

my heart still knocking at my ribs like tin.

It’s a strange and quiet kind of blunt

to be let go for the shape of the state I'm in.