Constance

The red and blue lights looked purple
reflected off the wet asphalt. It was a sad
and otherwise cold morning. A sign.

Sirens echoed like nervous laughter from the clouds,
the sound of another failed opportunist ignoring life's lessons.

Reports cited black ice. The car, youthful indecision.
Proof that driving doesn’t erase the past, but simply races past it.

I remember turning to my passenger, the girl,
the one who remains consistent. Small talk turned serious.
Your absence bleeds me dry. A half-witted confession of love.

That Sunday the makeshift pews sat emptier than normal.

On mornings when nobody showed up we’d sit
like uncut pieces of grass, or helpful hands
exhausted from a push mower workout.

We’d sing along or sit sipping coffee from styrofoam cups,
praying the day would end
as abruptly and as beautifully as it began.

The mornings when nobody showed up
I’d whisper, holding her hand:

Even God thinks you look good in a sundress.