The Mechanics of Time/Space as Experienced in a Rear View Mirror
We pull up to the curb
a block from the middle school.
I have exactly two seconds
to throw my voice under the radar
to say goodbyehaveagooddayiloveyou
as a ventriloquist would, without moving
my lips. Because you are already
scanning the sidewalk—for boys, girls?
I’m not sure who you are looking for,
but God forbid they should see you
talking to your mother. You say okay,
grab your sack, and dash away.
You join the flow of somber teens
and I, the flow of other harried mothers
and fathers, none of us quite sure
what to do with the likes of you.
Seventh grade is not what it used to be.
I watch you in my rear view mirror
and remember other school mornings
when I was your beloved escort.
Now, you wait for traffic to clear,
then saunter—nonchalant—across the lawn.
I imagine someday, when I am far away,
I will catch you in a distant mirror,
as you sit in a car, looking back
at your daughter or your son.
In your rear view mirror,
you will see what I see, that same one.