The Mazda never fit inside the dark garage.
The blades, the shadows, our bare ankles grazing spider webs,
a missing slab of concrete shaped like Delaware
spreading pebbles, thick dust across the floor
for thirty-three years… dust we swept, without shoes, in the dark.
Of course the dirty cables of that hulking door broke,
hissed, lashed for what it could sink a punishing bite into.
Of course you came for the weed eater when the hideous wires decided
in seconds, they wanted a face: your face.
You, the quiet burglar, lost; you, the lost and hunted, left.
So how could you have changed this thunder back to stillness?
And how could I have been your getaway driver?
Oh, my dear misery, I looked and looked and still can’t find you.
Danny Ross is a graduate of Macalester College and teaches special education in St. Paul. He formerly edited Macalester’s literary magazine, Chanter. His work has also appeared in Bodega Magazine