Distraction

The presence of your absence

lingers on the periphery,

like a leaf stuck under a wiper blade,

skittering against the windshield in a frenzy

at high speeds, refusing to let go

and be free in the wind,

questions revolving around it:

hows and whys, whens and wheres.

Everyone knows the whos.

The leaf is right there

in the bottom left corner of my vision,

lower and farther off-center

than the nick on the passenger side

where a piece of gravel, shrapnel

a passing dump truck

spewed onto my widshield

like an argument

chipped the glass,

the loud crack splintering

the cadence of the song playing.

I can still hear the sound

of the flake of glass separating

from the windshield,

still see that damn leaf

everyfuckingtime I get in the car.

I could lift that blade,

remove the leaf,

and give myself some peace.