White Car

There are now more white cars
than ever before. Iíve only just

noticed. Funny, this noticing,
increasing proportionally with the length of

your absence. Have I only just
learned to notice? You needed

freedom of movement, hence
the white car. Colourless, it. Why not

red for rage, for blood drawn, for 
betrayal, for vitriolic prose? Chameleon car 

a Dutch white dove, a white flag, a wartime peace offering. An
unacceptable truce.  Now time is measured in decibels

of silence. Where are your frantic 
eyes? Where are my letters? Is it

all gone? All of it? Everything is
measured in negatives now. In

lacking. In every white car 
without you inside.

© Lindsay Clayton Day