Original Poetry: “Half-Empty”

Rain and radio compete for noise
within my sealed car as the eeriness
of someone in the backseat
prickles my ticklish spine. I stare
straight out at dimly lit, broken
white lines made drunken by sheeted
water pushed by useless wipers. Peripheral
vision specters close in.

                                 Sensing you behind me
became frighteningly comforting.
I would reach forward and wipe mist
from the sectioned bathroom mirror to find
myself outlined by only faded wallpaper.

By lightning flashes and the stoplight’s
yellow glare, I see the soaked hitchhiker
and breathe. He is not behind me.
Liberated, I turn up the volume.
[Check out other original poems here.]


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