third monday always follows third sunday–
certain as clockwork and
death, taxes.

i took this one off to recover and
thank my foresight at
six-thirty. i am still awake and
would typically be brewing everyone
else’s coffee right now

(my host informs that his
coffeemaker has started
automatically)

he has a few cups as i recline in
his bed, feeling greasy,
sore. i want to sleep
but cannot. instead i
stretch out under his comforter and
close my eyes, try to breathe
properly through my nose
because my lips are
too dry but my lip balm is
somewhere on his floor, in my
pants pocket

he kisses me lightly
(coffee-and-cigarette breath)
then heads for his shower. i
lay in his bed, calm and
still–breath whistling through
congested nostrils and
limbs feeling restless.

answering machine picks up which
pulls me back to awareness, his
clock says it’s eleven so i
wonder if he’s gone to work
which a wander-through
confirms

i return to his bed, lying
there thinking about
you, brother–also
the mountain. you feel
far away and
i do too

(we survived your madness and
we will survive this)
i study my palm and
though there is
no scar, i rub it and
say your name.

his phone number is scrawled
on a short note with a
key beside it. i drink a
can of his coke and
make phone calls before
locking this stranger’s door and
slipping his key through his
mail slot.

third monday and
at lunch i think of how
long it’ll be before
i’m home

(we all get there
eventually)