
We come from solid work stock, you and I,
and we walk these final miles with tired backs,
towards a paper-plated Friday night.
You search your purse for your keys while I
watch a slim parchment of moon
dissolve across the snow.
There are clues here, I think, to everything.
The accumulation of our wet breaths etches
a communiqué across the front door window,
but you erase it
with the heel of your glove before
it can be jotted down on one of our sagging calendars.
We wear the same boots we wore six years ago,
the same scarves,
through the same tired hallway,
you first,
and I close the door behind us and
the snow melt is already turning brown.
You glance
at the litter of words I scribbled this morning
on the old motel stationery beside the phone.
I forgot what I wrote,
maybe a dentist appointment, maybe a confession,
maybe a dream I wanted to tell you about
before I forgot.
Here in the darkness, we compare our days
with clumsy smiles and cold hands.
We come from solid work stock, you and I,
and the miles have fallen behind us.
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