How to Disappear Completely

When you drop her off at the airport

You are not driving the only car. You are

Not even the least rusted or

Most pitted set of hands. The steering wheel

Stopped being cold half an hour ago

And your blunt fingers have wavered

Between tepid and lukewarm enough to

Confuse your circulatory system.

You lift her suitcase from the trunk

(Light, you got your

Stodginess from your father)

And parasail it over the bumper of her car

Like you were born to protect that painted bulge.

When you kiss her cheek

It is waxier than you remember it.
Her hair burnishes your nose. Has it always

Smelled like that? Why would you

Ask yourself a dumb question like that?

Never mind.

The answer must have lodged itself

Somewhere between the long necked bathroom faucet

And this flaccid drop-off lane. 

You will follow her in a few days,

Touchdown in the same city

(Though perhaps on different asphalt).

Your father taught you to watch your charges

Until their backs disappeared behind doors

So you watch her walk away,

Black coat tinted foggy by the car window
And the opaque snick of the automated glass.