I picture him lying on his side against the brown and white pitbull,
feet flush against car door. A stained sheet, attached to windows
and front seat backs, blocks nosy passersby and the idea of cold.
Snuggled between fleece sheets and a fake fur pillow, I’m glad
my cats glom onto my husband and don’t wake me up. I wonder
how luck, how fate work. I want to know if the man in the car
would be comforted knowing the woman who scurries by mornings
and looks up at sparrows, coos to them, now lies awake worrying
about his safety, his happiness. A person he’s seen but whose eyes
have not met his. This morning, the parking lot is empty. I ask if words
on a page reverberate, raise wings.
Karen Bramblett’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust & Moth, January House Literary Journal, Willows Wept Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and lives in Northern California with her spouse and two spoiled felines. Follow her on Bluesky @poetryeverywhere.bsky.social.