William Fargason
I walked out of my apartment building
and in the car parked nose-out next to mine
a woman's ankles were high in the air,
and at first I thought in the front seat
but a few seconds later became clear
it was the backseat. And they moved
in that grey darkness ever so slightly
as if rocked by the ocean at night.
When I got close enough to unlock
my car door, her ankles stopped
moving, but not before I saw the tattoo
on her ankle of a daisy. I hadn't
had sex in what seemed like months,
and maybe that's normal when you've
been with someone for years, but I
couldn't help envying this couple—
to find a not-so-secluded parking lot
with a busted-out streetlamp hanging over
them like some terrible angel, to say
we will be beautiful in this backseat
even if someone catches us full of light
and glowing. The reading an hour later
almost put me to sleep, and all I could
think about the whole time were her toes
gently touching that ceiling, and how
I'd interrupted their one moment
of escape in the day, and how I hoped
they continued what they started, continued
going where they planned after I drove
away from them into the night.