rewind and quicksand.

your voice
on the answering machine this morning
when i woke, late, closer to noon,
my arms and legs still drunk but
my head clear enough to pour the coffee, pry the windows open
to let in the cool air
and to listen
to you falter
at the beep
-you were just in the neighborhood, you didn’t want to wake me,
you quit smoking and wanted me to know.

what i know is that
where you’re sleeping these days
is two bridges
two highways
three exits
six stoplights away
plus those twelve other buildings on my block
that you must have passed
to pull up and idle at my curb,
your eyes taking in my dark window and drawn shades.

maybe you sighed
as you pulled away and drove back against the current
in that morning rush hour,
or
maybe you held your breath
until you saw that
she wasn’t awake, either,
when you finally made it home.