Trekking down Interstate 82,
I passed through hell’s gate
as the sun slithered above a canyon of regret.
I lived on the fumes of the dream
that Hannah would be home,
waiting in our bed.
The war over oil is over.
I left a year and one day ago.
I blended illusions and squinted
uncertainty over my shoulder
to an exit of pedaling my madness.
Today would have been our anniversary,
but Hannah’s shit was gone when I arrived,
and my heart ached.
A year and a day later,
Hannah returned,
saying she’d made a mistake,
wondering if I’d take her back.
With her spaghetti-straight, long hair,
tight jeans, and red lipstick,
temptation surfaced until reality
washed across my heart.
Angela approached,
crunching over crisp leaves,
and threw her arms around my neck.
“This a friend, babe?” Angela said, giving Hannah a polite smile. “A fellow soldier?”
“No,” I said, grimacing until I split into a grin. “She’s selling something that no one is buying.”
“Well, in that case, the baby would love to see her daddy.”

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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