It hurt
to be there for a third of the time
it took to drive there.

Twenty three hours of driving.
Six short hours until dawn.

We drove into each others arms
but in the cold of a playground
we saw our lives unfold
away from each other

I saw the look in your eye

When the children were playing on the swing.
When you and I spoke of religion.

And then it was gone.

By the kind of thing we both learned in the street.
A way to keep the hurt from killing.
A way to find our way home.

Your husband.
Didn't get the map right.
And for a split second, you seemed sharp.
Always use google maps. Don't use mapquest.

I think.

My heart ached and hurt from the moment of sunrise.
The sex. Not really us. Yet.
A sort of stolen encounter.
That asked more questions.
Than it answered.

So I close my eyes.
And I see a place
where a confused man
tries to remember the name.
Of a Bar.

On Harvard Square.
The weird tendency of a latter day saint
to avoid alcohol

Now leaves me.
That year I met the green fairy.
She gave me your number.

I didn't call.

I'm sorry.