Driver's Side

The traffic is a long, red pulse

moving toward the bridge.

My hand is resting on the plastic rim.

It is catching the sun.

It is older than the right one now.

The window has let the light come through

to map the spots and pull the skin

into a shape that feels

well, used.

The vein is a river, deep and blue.

It forks right where the knuckle starts.

A quiet map of where I’ve been

while the engine idles.