The shirt you wear is a potato, full of starch
I am bending with my head in your car door window
kissing you a twelve year goodbye
Your corduroy shoes are hesitating o'er the pedal
and I realize that goodbyes are not:
"I'll call you once I get there."
"Be good. I love you."
or even the screech of tires on fading concrete.
Goodbye was the moment I realized you were rolling up the glass with my head still inside your car, feet on tiptoe outside the door.
