I don't know how he does it, even how he
walks or holds a pool cue, as angry as he is.
Mine's like his scar,
but the footprint is the shape of a horse-hoof stamped into my back and chest,
That he died in public makes it worse:
privacy folded inside out
like his black socks in the suitcase on the seat-rack.
It's like us to have imagined we could work in the car.