That blue car you drive just passed by
but without you in it, without anyone in it, actually,
which raises more questions than it answers.
Perhaps it wasn't moving at all & I was!
It was me, zipping around town in my own car.
Other things that are or could be blue:
a canoe, the sky, a comedian's act, fingernails
on a Saturday night to complement a killer dress.
Here I would like to offer a brief but incisive comment
on the transitory nature of the vehicles we attempt
to navigate through the raging woods of sadness:
for years I piloted a green car & it became a part of me
but it is long gone & I am still me but not.
These days I drive a white car, mostly, though
some days I find myself behind the wheel
of a shiny grey car &, as there is no explanation
for this, I won't even try to fake one. Now
that I think about it, I remember that you yourself
drive a fancy brown car these days, when you drive at all.
So when you didn't whiz by me in your blue car,
it wasn't even you that didn't pass me without waving
or stopping & urging me to get in, to forget about whatever
this life has turned in to & start driving the old cars
the old way forever, forever, oh my, forever.