Poem 20

I always used to get in trouble for writing things on fogged up windows while I had to wait in the car for my mom. I smudged up many a car window with my greasy little mits, but it was for a good cause. Kids love to write and draw in the condensation on windows. I tried to write about that feeling here.
I'm not sure if this really happened as it plays out, but eventually I sacrificed accuracy in favor of what worked for the poem.

I Don't Know How to Unlock the Door

I don’t even know about months,
but here is March,
the glass and rain drops
between the tips of our fingers.

We are tracing on the inside and
outside of the window
of my mother’s Oldsmobile:
a star, a heart, a face, a fish.

Your laugh warms the driveway,
and you are on tiptoes.
I stretch a tiny hand up to the glass
to follow your finger as you spell
“Hi” and the word that means you.

Your fingertip drags pearls of water
down the curve of the glass,
making a squeaky sigh.
We are out of space here,
but the other window,
coated with fog,
needs our fingerprint pictures.

I take off my seatbelt.
It shudders back into its slot
as I crawl to the driver’s side.
Your teeth shine from the porch light,
and on my knees, I put my lips to glass
and dark, the wind.

The glass warms,
and when I open my eyes,
the keys are in the door,
and you are waving with your mom.