After Betsy
Every night a drove of us leaves
Our work building
And clot the lot’s exit up
Till emptied and distant,
No different when I’m stuck
With my key in the ignition,
Not yielding in spite
Of my turning, and as now
The only person
Except for me here, a man
Has knocked on my windshield,
Assuming I’m stuck and asks
To enter my car. He starts it
As if he freed the key
And looks at me
And says I’m a car thief.
To get home safely,
You’ll need me.
I agree.
I may stop somewhere
Away from work
Or stall, on that clotted street
Where everyone’s gone.
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