Turn the key

Turn the key,
and hold it there,
waiting,
to see where and when
the band 
will kick in.

Good enough,
appropriate,
are we still near?

I would've waved
or nodded or something
if I wasn't so still
I could feel 
no emotion.

Her expression,
I couldn't catch,
a tracer's procession
of proceed-with-that
the shutter too slow,
the shudder too fast,
opposite directions
on a foreign street,
pass.

A cigarette,
then I shift gears,
leaving,
with plans to return
another near evening.

Westward, then,
but the east is leading.
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