your truck drives by;
blinds me with shiny red paint
that seems much more pristine than when I drove it.
mud aside--there will be mud
because that's the nature of your play:
together you romp in the open terrain
over grassy hills and splashing through
beckoning hot puddles that douse your windshield
where tiny wipers wipe in reverse--
that always killed me.

your truck drives by,
and I look away,
then immediately look behind me
and search in the flash back, the seconds of time
when we were in the same space
at once
because there are no mistakes in this universe,
and I find meaning in this moment:
the red, bright, mud,
especially the sound of my sobs,
drowning out the stereo.