Awake, empty-handed, in the darkness with the sound of rain
rattling inside the cheap metal gutters like muffled drum-fire.
The warm, soft smell of your hair pressed close still rich
in the sharp empty chill of the rented room.
The sough of the distant highway your night-breathing
rising and falling as though you're traveling faraway.
(Years ago I was working on the road, doing the most grinding dirt-nanny work and staying in a cheap motel in Medford, which is kind of the lower GI-tract of Oregon. I awoke in deep night from a dream of home and wife and, just for a moment, thought she was there with me.
She was not.
That was a very long night.)
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