Almost Home

He's got a little acne,
which looks like splattered blood,
like he's recently shot someone
at close range.

He asks for my license,
insurance card, and registration,
with a rookie moisture in his voice.

I'm calm,
I'm calm,
my seat belt's on,
but there is still that quiver
as I hand the man
my laminated papers,
which say where I live,
and my real height,
and my real name,
and who pays for what.

My rear brake light is out
on the passenger side.
Where am I coming from?
A poetry reading.
From this silence now.
Is there gin on my breath?
Do I seem deliberate?
But there is nothing
with which to compare
ourselves
anymore
nowadays,
and I wasn't speeding, because I saw him
waiting behind that maple.

My mouth blinks,
I am actually taking her into the shop
tomorrow,
so thank you
for pulling me over
tonight.

Just tell them it's the rear brake light
on the passenger side, he's proud.
And I'm proud of him too.
He's glad it went well.
And I am glad it went well too.

He returns my information
in its little pouch,
and walks back to the drama machine.
I slap the accelerator and peel out
like Steve McQueen, like Jersey,
but actually drift away from the curb
like a retiree in his aluminum canoe would,
shoving off the banks of Spring Lake,
looking for trout,
thinking about my father,
under the hood of his Oldsmobile,
with a flashlight in his mouth,
mumbling, They fuck you in the ass
because they can.