the window II

you left it
open. to the elements,
to thieves, to squirrels,
to everyone
but me. you’re lucky
that all your crappy,
crappy stuff
was still there when
we came back
to the car. no one
stole your sweet ride,
just like no one stole
your sealed-up
heart.

N.B.: this is the poem
I didn’t write
back when said incident
occurred. is it the same
as what I would have done
then?