The last time we talked, you didn’t have much to say.
You were feeling the weight of your eyes.
We’d been to the art store. Your hand on your glass
left fingerprints in condensation.
It was early Friday evening; the sun was just setting;
we went driving too fast with cigarettes burning,
our mouths shaping women — we are loose with our words
passing long-distance runners on the side of the road
because it’s early in the evening; the sun is just setting;
we are driving too fast with your arm out the window.