Tonight you’re loaning Billy your car, a brand-new
seal-gray Volkswagen Passat with four doors,
though last week at 3 a.m., he stole your canoe,
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
at the end of a bad year. Trees begin
to outnumber houses. Rain turns to snow
as fields hang like paintings.
