July 8, 2011

Traffic

In the small hours 
the air is thick with quiet, 
your breathing deep, 
unconscious, the room 
recovering 
from our talking.
The street is empty, 
the traffic light at the corner 
stopping no one, one eye 
slowly blinking red, reflected 
in the wet pavement. 
A cop car sits in front
of the all night donuts, 
engine running, fueling up
with coffee. I'm wide awake,
listening, watching,
waiting for the day, 
still a long way off, 
the earth slowly turning, 
following the sun 
like a stalking 
lover, some ex who 
will not be denied. 


6/2011