by Sarah Ellis

The gas prices glitter on the pavement. I pick
at the skin of my fingers while you drive

one hand on the wheel, one hand on the rose gold necklace
today earlier you stole. Allegories on the radio and

rain on the windshield, legs tight and twitchy
against the gravitational pull of the glovebox.

This car used to be mine. The brakes were better then.
Soon we’ll both be gone and she’ll sit in the driveway

forgotten. Better yet, they’ll give her away. The red hand
of the crosswalk light signals the end of something

I can’t wrap inside my fingers. You say to
skip this song. Your passcode’s still

the dead dog’s birthday. It’s alright. He’s my lock screen too.

Sarah Ellis is a chemist and graduate of Reed College who lives and writes in Massachusetts. Her work has recently appeared in Poet Lore, #Ranger Magazine, and Oyster River Pages, among others.