Blind

“I love that it makes a rainbow,”
I said, looking at (but still avoiding)
the oil slick from whatever car
had since vanished.
At certain angles, the dirty black
swirled and changed
and made some small beauty
that I never could ignore.
You looked back, shrugged, and said,
“It’s just oil.”
I tried to explain what I was seeing —
a dirty rainbow, yes, but
a rainbow nonetheless.
You looked at me, shrugged, and said,
“It’s just oil.”

I should have known then.

So when I saw stars
on the side of the road this morning —
when their light twinkled subtly
and brightened my morning commute —
I remembered the rainbow oil,
and in my head, I heard your voice say,
“It’s just glass.”

“Who cares?” I thought (smiling).
“At least
I can see it.”

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