The Color of His Car

The Color of His Car

I watch you pull into the drive at half past eight,
that waxed and gleaming import sitting there so great,
my knuckles whiten on the window frame I grip,
I count the zeros on a price I would never tip.

You bought it with the money that I never made,
you wore it like a weapon in a masquerade,
I check the driveway twice before the morning breaks,
and hate the way that craving plants its hollow aches.

The color of your car is the color of my want,
a green so sick and saturate it bleeds and haunts,
I do not wish you ruin, only what you own,
I want the whole damn kingdom, not a single stone.

I memorized the options that you never chose,
the interior that catches the morning glows,
I tell myself I do not care, I almost believe it,
the wanting has a shape and I cannot leave it.

I would drive it to the coast and back and nowhere fast,
I would wind the engine out until the moment passed,
but here I stand with both my palms against the glass,
watching everything you have roll right on past.