I love how your breath smells after a long car ride,

You, the driver, nervously pungent
With a sour acidity I, myself, know well.

And how your hands

Slip through my fingers

As if they were smaller,

But for a second I can sense
The grip you must have had on the wheel,

Same as the one when we drove from the Mets game to Manhattan
And you wouldn’t talk to me on the bridge.

And I’d watched your unsteady finger turn the volume down
On a song I knew you loved.