You would have seen me
and I would have been driving.
Driving down the road of the house,
the house where we all lived.
I was going there,
but as I approached with my champagne steel trap,
in a moment
I decided to keep driving.
I saw your car and with a flutter
my foot didn't graze the brake.
You would have seen me,
if you were looking out the window.
If you would have recognized my car.
Amidst the gathering of things,
the putting of books in boxes,
or clothes into bags,
between the hidden sips of beer in your bedroom,
and quick, terror-filled glances behind you,
did you see me? In those quick seconds when my car brushed past.
Did it matter?
You would have seen me keep driving,
past all the other small houses
and you would see me at the stop sign,
waiting
before a road clean of cars.