Just A Few Items

Invisible in the glow of the streetlamp

Sitting in the truck with my groceries

I could be any man sitting alone at night

And I am, then

Squeaks from the seat and bad alignment

Drink down the gullet and a dark sigh

Winding roads in the night

Air through the vents and into the cab

Bag rustling in the night, summer air

Muscles sore from work

You can see the city from the top of the hill

About a half week of stubble

Shaving a bit now

And there’s something wrong with that

Dreaming of horses and far off places

Planes and books and people

Back home in the office the wind pulls the curtains

Concave, concave, and fluttering

Daylight washes in to light my book

In warm bed, that’s all, that’s all a poem

Really is, the chronicle of one day