Back Seat Rustle
Singing with the radio,
I tap the steering wheel
in time with the music.
I smile in anticipation,
visualize myself dressed
in the new threads.
The light flares green,
no time to stop.
Wordless, her eyes beg.
Her toothless smile is sad,
her hands still, but for the cross
she traces on her narrow breast.
I feel her pain,
a knife-thrust deep.
The sign beside her
spells her fear.
Shame becomes my cloak;
my empty purse mocks
as packages rustle
on the back seat.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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