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Rush Hour

December 22, 2017


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,


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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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