Good Night Susan
I can hear it coming down the mountain
out of the cloud line hard on the tracks.
The setting sun blinding me in the orange
red descending on the fulsome fields.
The boys are going home to Mama calling,
the girls are pulling the curtains closed
and I am still on the road, the night
about to land on the dusky heat.
If I can keep the wind in my face
I could keep myself awake without feeling.
Tar strips marking time, dial glow
throwing my face onto the windshield.
Its always the leaving that settles me,
much more than the bussines of arriving.
The order it takes to find your place
in what is mostly strange or occasionally frightening
and once folded the right way slip in
like feet into shoes in the morning,
squinting onto signs with directions,
watch your step, slow down, speed up,
high noon hypersomnia in air-conditioned rooms,
stumbling into elevators, missing calls.
Flashes of pictures, you, gazing back,
all dissolving into filtered air and light.
I can hear the freight train rolling to my right
as a moth shatters on the windshield.