Drive My Car

after Ryūsuke Hamaguchi

In half-light of morning the red car appears
over the bridge, suspension wires like streaks of rain. 
Standing at the harbor in a new millennium, attempting

to light a cigarette in the wind, she toggles
a translucent umbrella. She reminds me of you, 
ponytail tucked into a baseball cap,

standing against a backdrop of gray water. 
Love comes in different forms all your life.
The camera wants you to see a woman’s beauty

through the eyes of a man, and I do.
He holds his cigarette out of the sunroof
in the dark, wrist hovering a few inches from hers,

two small flames burning separately,
respectfully, small gap in the dark between them 
widening again when the windows close.