P R N D

A downpour drumming on the rooftop,
engine running, car, idle, interior
bathed in the pungent intoxicating spices
radiating from the carry-out
in the passenger seat. Inside the Taj,
neon beacon in a strip mall
dark with the common sense of folks
long gone home, red lamps
glowered. A pair of headlights
glared back. A downpour drowning
out its own drumming, so loud
I could barely make out the whispered venom
streaming from a mobile into my right ear.
She was saying something about something
as I reached across the steering column
with my left hand, as if my left ear
had been bent by the loudspeaker of the law.
Engine off, everything—the car, the carry-out, etc.—
went cold. I tossed the phone into the passenger seat,
put her into reverse, backed up, out,
and drove home with my double order,
her running commentary as undertow.