Interstate

Half-eaten fries, the remains of hash browns,

fill the table's distance between them. She scoops the car-keys, says she'll not be long.

In the washroom mirror she checks her face

close up; sees years of wearied waiting.

She steps into a sticky afternoon.

How long before he'll notice, before he'll ask -

the forecourt is nauseous with diesel and ocean -

ask if anyone's seen a woman in middle years.

She's onto the freeway, jittering across lanes.

And why, he'll wonder, now that the kids are gone,