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.
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