deep.

there is this puddle
and it’s filled -
with rainwater
and mud
and tablespoons of motor oil
and whatever else might have been
washed inside -
like chewed gum,
disregarded,
thrown to the side after the sugar dissolved
on ungrateful tongues
satisfying temporary cravings
only to be tossed out car windows -
windows that divide the road from the seats
and the airbags protecting
laughing couples
or crying babies -
maybe lovers
grandparents,
you.
maybe you.
and this puddle follows me
making a mess of my new tires
and wheels
and the slightly gray, mostly silver paint;
and the hum of the four-cylinder
that i hope is strong enough
to keep going
so that i don’t have to fear
what might happen
if it stops
suddenly
on the way home
in the middle of a crowded highway
filled with rush hour, cell phone-chatters
and texters
and people who really, really need a nap.
and if the engine quit
in the middle of the puddle,
i don’t know how i’d find my way
out.
and so i add
to the blackness of its depth
spewing tears
and pain
and that place deep within me
that holds memories and my holly hobby glasses
and the way he used to look at me
when i was sick and drastically underweight
and a junior in high school feeling more worthless
than the piece of gum
that sits at the bottom of the puddle
that follows me home.