Witching Hours

Roadside Diner, 12:37 AM

In the booth behind me,
two men are talking about
a YouTube video. I need
to show you it, man. There’s
these soldiers in a Humvee
pushing through traffic in Iraq,
just – and it’s crazy.
The cute waiter catches my
eye, winks, pushes back
sweaty hair.

Room 410, 2:05 AM

I am lying with my head
on your shoulder, right arm across
your chest, left arm curved
around my own waist, and when
the movie ends you pull me
towards you and bury your face
in my hair. The ceiling fan
clicks away. I will not see
you again for three months.

Airport, 5:15 AM

Hazelnut coffee instead of
vanilla, the last caffeine
I will have for several days
although I am not aware of that
yet. Outside, the sticky-
still night. I scrunch up my
right foot, the one with the
broken toenail.  As if
clawing to the ground
could keep me here.