—Christopher, 1974–1995
We’re walking on the interstate
at night, in a downpour
that leaves us dry
Pushing through slashes
of lacquered acrylic, pressed back
by a wind I can’t feel
In the rain, the lamplight slithers
strips of light, glowing jump ropes
that skitter for distances
This highway is nearly free
of traffic but for us and the blank stares
of surrounding puddles
You say your new home is OK,
I should see it someday, and then laugh
in a relaxed way I don’t recognize
Too soon you wave good-bye, your arm
sweeping an arc as if wiping clean
some glass barrier between us
Then you’re gone, the pavement
goes splotchy newsreel, and I wake
to aching sunlight, wanting to document