My tires swerve to avoid your blind spots, mirrors
tilted I tap two smokes up the yellow line.
“Can you count my fingers, baby? How about if
I hold them here?” Mission? Simple. This is no
return of the dark queen. This is just a minor
glitch in your aqueous humor. No surgical precision,
no sweatneck apologies, no flowerbox reunions. Just this:
A jump between your headlights. Baby, didn’t you miss
my shadow? Just this: A proud movie extra beams
onto the scene. She disappears through a steam-cloud
while the one-armed heroine takes the last train home.
Tell me, didn’t you miss those spaces in between?