That car hasn’t moved since the day he left.
Gray wind litters it with leaves,
the refuse and the jetsam of the forest;
cat’s-paw footsteps stir debris,
leave dried-mud traces of their forays
on dented sheets of steel left here
among the willow trees.
Light and shadows play on leather and on wood;
on a broken pair of flower-print sunglasses,
the air-vent, shattered by her feet,
both deep and shallow scratches
and little burns of ancient matches
from cigarettes before he met her.
Once-spinning wheels are now a home for bees,
buzzing past the aging rubber
and the brand-new brakes
he bought for life’s outtakes
and those close calls that terrified her.
Inside, air is silent, hushes echoes,
edges of their moments dampened
by leather and by steel: soft foam
rubber bulging from the seams
of torn front seats.