THE HIGHWAY BEHIND HER
She drives to God
knows where, veers left onto 79,
watches exactly where this road
won’t lead. City lights
starring her back, she cuts
a lane of traffic, pulls
into Al’s Fresh Melons. Black coffee,
a pack of Newports, her husband’s brand.
How smoke used to slip
out of his mouth, like words he meant
to take back—
the way the wind erases
its own work, rousing leaves
when yesterday it ripped them down.
fiction poetry "fact" photography