Rumbling down I-40, staring into sunlight,  
I let my hand fall to hers in the bus seat beside me.  
We speed through the city just as rush hour begins,  
cars and trucks peeling from the ramps  
into a steady stream of flashing movement.  
I press my bag into my lap, still my breath,  
turn my eyes to the passing blue sky. 
One tear falls, then another into my mask — 
hidden, silent.  

I force my thoughts from the clinic  
to the blue sky in front of me,  
a streak of white cloud splitting through it.  
Follow the cloud as the bus  
bumps and surges, slows and leans.  
Try not to allow myself to think further  
than its white outline, not to speculate  
about what might be or any  
unknowns.  

The cloud stretches  
as we speed along, thinning into a point, then fizzling  
into kite tails.  
I squint into the lowering sun, watching   
until all that’s left is a wide palette  
of unending blue,  
until all I feel is the bump 
of the seat beneath me,  
the rumble of the bus wheels  
on the potholed road, 
the touch of my daughter’s hand  
beneath mine.