White Car
There are now more white cars
than ever before. I’ve 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