when she’s gone for days, I read Hemingway
and write her compact texts in his style,
until I meet her, later, at the station,
arms full of nothing
in preparation for her slender frame.

when she’s gone for weeks, I read Bukowski
and become increasingly lecherous and erratic,
cringing at every evidence of promiscuity,
calling bets and bluffs, equally
reckless and indiscreet.

when she’s gone for months, it’s undeniable;
I’m dense but not delusional.
I drive towards Martinsville with Kerouac
and wonder when a new destination
will replace the 231st St. Station,
and who else will be worth waiting for?