Rush Hour

Morning-stuck like mucus in my throat, awoke to the sound of sheets, no wind, no skin next to me, just storm-gray where you lay.

I open a window. The world is a limbo of falling white, streaks of night-dark a monster once mowed to clear the roads of ling’ring snow.

It’s too cold. No comforter warm enough to quell the hush of country rush-hour thumbing through my thoughts of you.

Even if I wish, wipe my eyes left to right and left the window closed, the picture stays: You depart. I descend.

But you remain, frozen through the sun, conjuring a corona that captures the trees, topples the buildings, swallows the flames, and buries me still.

Back to bed with me. Rush hour is forever a slush of grit, gravel. My only comfort: The plush bear resting on the pillow, once and never will,

yours.