Perfection
Sometimes
we’re perfect together, and
sometimes
we completely clash,
like last night
when we passed that
car going 40 in a 55.
I saw a drunk punk with
long blond hair slumped
over the steering wheel; you
saw a timid, hunched grandma
in a shawl.
You were driving, so I was closer
but I didn’t have my glasses,
and you wore contacts.
We both agreed it was a car
going too slowly,
but we were too
stubborn to admit to being
wrong, and so it
was quiet for awhile
during which I sulked
and pondered your
imperfections while
doubting my own eyes.
‘It doesn’t really matter,’
I said finally, and you
agreed.
‘Let’s just say we passed
a slow Ford,’ you added.
I rolled my eyes and
stared out my window.
I may not wear glasses,
but even I know a Ford from a
Mazda.
