The streetlights string their lines between the moon and sometime soon
Headlights cut a vanishing point into the night’s cocoon
His hands command direction home his heart no more to roam
Fingers run his tangled hair no substitute for comb
She awaits him yet on kitchen chair with hope laced in her hair
Watches headlights cross the wall with gaze now turned to stare
Her hands command her heart be still to hear his car approach
And fingers tap an ancient code and, tingling, long to touch
February 2009
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