I tell the driver
to go slow,
that I need
his backseat
to use
as a handkerchief.

But he tells me
that we’re right
around the corner,
and this
is the only light
in the way.

“But I can’t cry
at home.”
I say,
panicked.

Because all that’s waiting
are whitewashed walls
that I cannot sink into
and bottles
that refuse
to kiss back.

“Suck it up,”
is his reply,

“That’ll be $50.
Now get out.”

He doesn’t know the people
waiting,
the eyes,
I’ll have to face;
the ones I’ll fall into –
and not because they’re deep
but because they’re empty.