The night wrapped around her shoulders
like a cloak as she waited between the streetlights,
standing where neither’s warm glow could touch her.
She was waiting for a yellow car, she told me,
one with scrapes all along the sides
from a crash long past.
I would have liked to hear the story,
but I had work too soon to stay.
All the walk, however, my mind turned
and wandered back around to the two streetlights.
It seemed like a painting to me,
a woman in a red cap and black coat,
watching the street for her yellow car,
and I wondered who drove it.
A sibling; a friend; a lover?
Man or woman? Young or old?
Were they as cheerful as their sunshine ride,
or a dour soul stuck with a dreadful hue?
I would have liked to see their face,
but I had work to soon to stay.