A Drive Into Black Rain

I did not sleep that night, the motel room was already taking on the chill ambience, smell, and sounds of an intensive care unit, weary eyelids sensed the tubes and restraints already binding me. Latex-gloved fears kept me on a weary high wire. Occasionally there’s distant laughter in a corridor where people are carefree, I pretend to laugh along but my voice croaks and trembles fearing the passing of time taken to hear anything and to respond to it. I did not plan on Cincinnati I know I mean nothing to Cincinnati, Cincinnati has no memory of me yet, and If I die in its University Hospital I will still be a hole within a hole of a book never read. During the 4 a.m. G.P.S drive it rained a soft black rain. My headlights plowed into time-left. Behind me in the motel room, I am still packing and unpacking while somnambulant eyes look away and try not to see the looming Hospital entrance; retreating before the dawn. At this hour The entrance is a dim electric tube that withers, and reflates like a dissected promise.