I think I’m a generally nice person
until I catch my expression reflected
in a passing driver: tight jaw, grim lips,
eyebrows a dark, solid judgment.
I always assume the other driver disapproves
of me until I realize our features twin
each other with dishonest distaste. Maybe,
like me, they’re thinking about what they just bought
at the grocery store and how to store it, cut it, cook it –
or remembering they need to call their sister –
or composing a poem to the pearly grey forecast –
maybe they’re a generally nice person with
the same face we all make driving home alone,
fog-featured by our own thoughts.