DISTANCE

Driving to work, I am thankful

for every dark mile, leaving behind

the dishes soaking in the sink,

the crumpled laundry abandoned

in baskets at the foot of the stairs,

the children still quiet under

the soft hood of sleep. This morning

I notice the street lights that line

the interstate in reliable intervals

like cordial encounters between people,

like the defined distance between

home and work. This morning

I want more than cordial. I’m running late

and am forced to park on the top deck

of the garage. My consolation prize

is the view from the roof—

cargo liners docked at the mouth

of the silver river and the tips

of old stone churches at my eye line.

Stepping out of my car, the sky

is spitting and the wind is trying

to wash something from me.

Today at the hospital,

looking down at an open chest

held apart by a steel retractor,

watching the taut knot

of ripe human muscle

pant like a hungry dog’s lips—

I think I’m getting closer.

-        From The Heart Room (Finishing Line Press, 2019); with permission of the poet.

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