Only You Could Know

When I pull up to the coffee queue, tugging off the jacket
From the interview, the line's all the way around the store.
I watch it go by in stops--window open,
One arm and shoulder in the heat shallows of the drive-through,
Dragging my fingers through car wakes.

Brake lights. Slide forward. Brake lights.
Heat settles like a second passenger beside me.
Light lurks in the waning storefront museum
Across the flat Texas road. Brake lights.
Slide forward. I used to love these highways
With a heat shimmer pilot light that flicked on
As soon as the tires pulled out of the apartment driveway.
Brake lights.

Empty afternoon, where the questions should have been.
That one internship summer
In an edge zone office beside that body shop
Where you worked. We met when I was walking, restless,
To some fast food lunch. You swore that plastic toys and
Plastic booths meant plastic people. You wanted to know
If my arms bent properly, and my fingers.

So we ate lunches in the gas station between office and shop,
Laughing about the girls who came to meet your boss,
Saying they'd studied his book in class and wanting his secrets.
Wanting him to be one of theirs.

And I was just as plastic as you said. Just as plastic
As the frazzled cover of this used book, only you can still see
A black and white photo of a woman and motorcycle
Some summer before I was born, your boss's name
Printed same as on that body shop.
Where I'd seen the original photo, but never believed in the book.
And whatever I'm looking for is never going to interview me
Because the road doesn't ask those questions.
I'm still in a skirt and hose and office shoes,
Even without an office. And the coffee line
Moves like an amusement park river
And I drop my hand into the tepid, oily breeze
And wonder what the secret is.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse and Poets United Poetry Pantry # 480.

-- Chrissa