In Another's Hands

When I came out of the hardware store
into the eight-space parking lot beside it,
a wholesaler's semi had backed into the drive
and maybe blocked me in. But maybe not.
I got in my truck and twisted to look out
toward the driver, who looked me over first,
then the space we had to work with. It could be done.
Her hand, palm up, began to close and open.
I eased the clutch, trusting only the hand
to tell me where I was. She watched the gap,
the truck rolled back, her fingers moved, then closed--
hold it!--and I stopped and shifted to pull away,
but paused and waved, wanting to hold a moment
when something, however little, worked just right.