"What year is your ride? It’s really beautiful."
I turn off the car and hand over my my license,
consider what to do with an
out of place compliment.
He asks if I know why he pulled me over.
Because an asshole wouldn't let me in
so I took what's mine with no regrets.
"No," I say.
The citation comes in quadruplicate,
an unsafe change in lanes.
Love the red interior, he says,
I pull away carefully,
wondering what carbon paper costs these days
and how it would survive