I found an old rock in the dry dirt outside
the door of my motel room.
it was a triangle with soft rounded edges
and a split down the middle of one corner.
it was darker than English moss.
green like the soft frills of a peacock's plume.
I waited for you, but I never told you where I was.
it was you who taught me how to write these kinds of equations.
I waited on the steps for you,
and I hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
you taught me how to listen to these distant stations.
distant stations.
I saw the sky break.
I threw a rock at a crow who was playing in the mulch of some rose bushes by the motel office.
missed him by a good yard or two.
I sang old songs from nowhere.
Los Angeles.
Albuquerque.
I said a small prayer for the poor and the naked and the hungry.
and I prayed real hard for you.
I waited for you, but I never told you where I was.
it was you who taught me how to write this kind of equation.
I waited on the steps for you,
and I hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
you taught me how to listen to these distant stations.
distant stations.