After Betsy

Every night a drove of us leaves 
Our work building

And clot the lot’s exit up
Till emptied and distant,

No different when I’m stuck
With my key in the ignition,

Not yielding in spite
Of my turning, and as now 
The only person

Except for me here, a man 
Has knocked on my windshield,

Assuming I’m stuck and asks
To enter my car. He starts it
As if he freed the key

And looks at me
And says I’m a car thief.

To get home safely,
You’ll need me.
I agree. 

I may stop somewhere
Away from work

Or stall, on that clotted street
Where everyone’s gone.