The patrolman's spotlight
illuminates the stage
through fogged up windows.
Thankfully it's mostly conversation
that he's catching.
We fiddle for ID
and hand it over
promising to leave the park
like truant teens.
"I didn't see the sign.
It's dark and raining."
He buys it because it's the truth.
The best lies usually are.

I follow her
to the train station
and recognize the rollers
on a car parked down the block.
This will be a safe place
to harbor curiosity.
It's almost 3 am
but the Metro runs all night.
"Are you sure we're good?"
she asks as we lean in for a kiss.
"Better than good,"
and I hope this isn't passing
like the empty locomotive
rolling through without a whistle.

I lay awake another hour
after getting home at four.
It's been too long
since someone's
held my hand across a table.
Our waitress at the diner
didn't mind our endless dinner.
Blah blah blah blah blah
and four syllables right here.

(It's not writing if you're happy
but I'd rather live than scribble.)

Currently reading:
"Gates of Fire" by Steven Pressfield.

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