Leave Poem by Tony Walton

In Brighton, a suburb of Denver,
at6: 03 pm on a Tuesday, a woman
in dark shades is seen careening through
a yellow traffic light turning red,
grinning straight into the windshield
days rerunning behind her:

41 Christmases,3 mortgages,4 cars,5 dogs
7 expired drivers licenses
2 slippers under the bed

Days fill
Nights fill
Glasses fill
Calendars fill
Beds fill

She never fills

But what life did she expect?

An ant is crawling across the
knuckles of her driving hand
He knows the answer but
he's not telling her

Radio rising, orange tip of a
cigarette sparks the dark
out the window
a light beer in the cupholder

she eases down on the pedal
humming rubber on white concrete
going somewhere:

factories without smoke drowse soundless
ships sail from distant harbors
cars run silently at highway rests
numbered seats fly across time zones

the world continues to
be the same

without her.