I never planned
on returning home that night.
I was driving past myself,
past time that grew foggy
in the rear view mirror.
I couldn't figure out
how many miles were left behind,
how many turns were wronged,
how many dreams were flitted,
how many bottles were opened.
Yet I could tell,
by the way fear unbuttoned his chest
in the passenger seat,
puffed up his cigarette,
then rolled down the window,
that my heart was still there;
I probably left it home,
tucked in bed, trembling
in regret.
I wish I found my way home that night.
To the front door,
Ma glued a paper that said,
you missed your curfew -
sleep outside.
Tonight, mother,
I will sleep outside -
a flat tire cast among road wrecks,
a ghost crossing dead ends.
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