driving home at 3, 4 a.m.
the road is wet and all yours
tires roll over the asphault more smoothly and the window
is cracked open, letting in damp but surprisingly mild air

a lone dog limps by
emerging from a brief, thin patch of white fog
and a low car rumbles past,
a strange spectre of widely-spaced headlights
on some unknown fraternal journey through the night

back when you were getting home late, years ago now,
[delete: from Ramona, from taking kids to intensive care at midnight
and waiting with them, suddenly trusting them to do the right thing,
to behave in public
and their frankness astounded you,]
you sped over the rolls and lurches,
slid across the puddles, pumping the pedals to get home

now, when your nights are lost to people and drinks and soft beds
in houses that are not your own,
the trip past the tall grass
and fences
and leaning aluminum out-buildings
goes more slowly,
is more savory somehow
in this wet, shiny, misty night

you pass through a loneliness
and feel it seeping into your bones