Across state lines

I saw your car

pull away from the curb, and,

just for a moment, I saw myself,

as if beheaded by light shining off

its chrome. I saw the many infinite streaks of color

reflected back in the passing of cars on its skin.

I saw a footprint of a small child at the bottom

of a small window. And when

I looked for your eyes, I

trusted that they were reflecting back

in your rearview mirror, looking at me,

useless, watching you drive away; and

when I sat down, you watched me cry on that curb,

as I got smaller and smaller. I

continue to get smaller and smaller,

even now.


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