We pull into a station
somewhere off the interstate,
blunted by the tired quiet
that we close into the car behind us
Under the metal canopy
we are strangers to each other,
to any time beyond this wet night,
like two people who never spoke the same language.
Moths drift balletic
through florescent falls,
a swarm of paper coins.
In you I see a map without roads.
I am the blur of night mist on glass,
a fingerprint on a window.
Tomorrow
you will once again
be as familiar
as my own left hand
But between us now and then will fall
the nights when we must be content
with the burned coffee,
the foreign familiarity;
the nights when a hotel room
is as close to home as we can come.
