by Mark Waldrop

A tissue, she was saying - hand me a tissue.
Her seat belt was locked and she was rocking
back and forth in it cinching
wrinkles into her favorite blue silk blouse.

I can't remember her wearing anything else.

Her hands were gesturing - on and on- an endless
loop of fingers with rusted creaking knuckles.

I need a tissue.

And then, lying over sideways, steering blind --
risking my life and what was left of hers.

I dragged one from the box and
it made a wooden popsicle stick noise.