Carpool

I’m not sure why you and I called it a carpool. It was
just we two, and I always drove. There was the daily
Starbuck’s drive-through for you to buy your morning latte,
and on the way to your office, you always held the cup
between your feet. Aside from seeming unhygienic,
although I try to keep my car clean, you never seemed
to notice there were two cupholders available for your use,
one on the door, the other on the console. I didn’t
want to be impolite, so every time a cup spilled, I didn’t
point out to you those options. If it were only coffee,
black, there would have been less of a problem. It was
the milk that made the floor mat so hard to clean. I always
wondered if you went somewhere to buy a replacement
before heading to your office after I dropped you off,
and if you did, why you couldn’t you just buy your coffee there.
Those sloshy mornings gave new meaning to the word carpool.
Every weekend, in order to recover from at least one spill that week,
I’d wash the mat and try my best to wipe and vacuum out
the leftover floor latte coating. No matter we quit the pool
many months ago now, I still smell your coffee and wonder
just exactly why you stopped, think of you whenever I drive.

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