At Least

At least you don’t call anymore
or drive past her dark house,
your headlights two burglars
creeping up the street
while they sleep as a couple
beneath open windows, not stirring
at the rattle of trash cans in the alley,
undisturbed by the wind against
the shutters or your shadow
lifting and falling on the blinds.

At least that passes
and you’re free to drive on,
allow the hours to pile up in the back seat,
spill over onto the floorboards;
allow the distance between then and now
to lengthen like the black road in front of you,

Published in Rip Rap

Photo by Sixties Photography on Unsplash