After the plane went down,
the cars sat for weeks in long-term parking.

Then, one by one, they began to disappear
from among the cars of the living.


When we went to retrieve his,
you drove the rows of the lot
while I pushed the panic button on the fob.


Inside, a takeout coffee cup
sat in its cradle,

a skim of decay
floating beneath the lid.

I’d ridden in that car
many times, but never driven it.


When I turned the key,
the radio
opened unexpectedly,
like an eye.


I was conscious of the ground
passing just beneath the floor –

and the trapped air in the tires
lifting my weight. I realized

I was steering homeward
the down payment

of some house we might live in
for the rest of our lives.


Photograph by Shutterstock

Letters to Omar
1911, The Other Revolution