To the Man Whose Car I Hit

In the white horizontal light
of a November afternoon, I pulled
into a parking space next to
your old black Mazda.

There was one cringing silent
moment- just a split second,
I swear- your car lifted, bounced-
nudged by my bumper- gently,
I promise!
In the spiderweb shadows thrown
by leafless branches, it was hard
to find the mark. Possible,
but difficult.

Why were you in Shop-Rite
that blinding Friday? Frozen pizza
in cardboard for a night alone, or perhaps
further down the aisle for your fiance's
favorite ice cream?
You were gone when I emerged
clutching my chocolate chips, started
my car and rumbled away-
I'm sorry.
I was cowardly.

But don't you think, stranger, that
it is better to live life zoomed out, anyhow?
Just... don't look too closely.