Colin says, "I can't keep my eyes open."

We're driving back

from his grandfather's home, and it's late.

That is to say, it's early.

We drove out from the city to watch Geminids,

getting to the vineyard around eleven.

It's what, three-thirty-ish now.

We both have classes and/or work in the morning.

We've been listening to music.

Colin has this cassette thing that goes in his cassette player

to hook up to his iphone, or mine,

and we're listening to tunes.

He's drug up Tapestry, I'm on a Duke Ellington kick,

not the band, his trio.

~

He says he can't keep his eyes open,

and I say, "no problem," which makes him chuckle,

despite his weariness—"no problem"

is an expression non grata between us. 

I say, "no problem, I can drive."

He pulls over, we switch, I slide behind the wheel

(I've always wanted to write that)

of his F-150, adjust myself to the bench seat,

or rather the seat to me, drop it into first.

Naturally it stalls, but I get the hang of it.

There's no one on the road, and Colin is too tired to care—

the truck has a couple hundred thousand miles on it,

I think it can take the occasional missed shift.

We head for the city, two hours distant.

~

Sleepy as he is, we talk.

Moonless drives and nearly deserted highways

are conducive to talking, in particular

confessional talking. We share some private thoughts,

not so much that we'll regret it

in the light of day, enough to deepen our friendship.

I do ask him about Marcy, why they haven't

"transitioned" into intimacy.

He's quiet, but ultimately talks about their relationship,

the complications of her family,

her intense sense of privacy, and . . . he doesn't know.

I let it go.

We talk about things like that. 

Things that friends would like to talk about, but usually don't.

~

I showed Colin's grandfather the sketches I made

the last time we were up, a few weeks ago.

He liked one in particular,

done from his back porch overlooking the vines

running down the valley to the dry creek.

He asked if I would do a painting of the scene,

but I'm not a painter. If he wanted

me to design a cover for an e-zine, I could, and would,

but I've never painted. 

Too bad. My first commission is a non-commission.

Colin's half asleep or better.

I tell him the story of Terri, from the sweet beginning

to the sad ending. 

I tell him I miss her. 

~

I do, but that isn't to say I'm carrying a torch, I'm not.

My thoughts lie elsewhere.

We talk about Christmas, he's going home,

I'm staying at the apartment, I want some quiet time.

My parents are disappointed, as is my brother, but I need this.

I'll go home after xmas and stay through New Year's.

Colin falls asleep. I drive. It's pitch black

but for the headlights, and the occasional car or truck

in the other lane. It isn't pitch black really—

the glow of the city is on the horizon.

We'll get home around five-thirty. I have a nine o'clock class.

It was worth it. Geminids was a sight to behold,

but even better were the night sounds,

so unfamiliar to me.

~

Colin is a lot like my father, a worker, capable, gentle,

sensitive, displays a dislike for modernity,

favors a truck that he can fix himself, a lifestyle

that he can afford, a love of family, and words—

the difference being, I suppose, Colin is self-confident,

my dad doubts himself, not himself, rather,

his role as father, he hadn't reckoned my brother and I

would throw so many curves his way.

He thought love was enough and was surprised when it wasn't.

Maybe that's all behind us. We're doing better.

But he's spooked, no doubt.

We see it in his eyes, the worry, the strain, the doubt.

I guess no one ever told him there's more to being a dad

than expressing unqualified love.

~

While Colin sleeps I listen to Mr. Ellington's

complicated chord schemes,

then I listen to Radka Toneff and dream of sweeping curves

and delicious scents.

Life is so simple at this time night of night, or so lonely,

I'm not sure which.

She's far away and out of reach. Yet, she isn't.

I guess it's a matter of, what, faith?

I don't know, but my hands feel empty.

The songs make me a little sad, which I cannot tolerate.

I begin to think of a poem to write, 

something to make myself happy. It's what I do.

I don't know what I'll write about, but I'll think of something.

I always do.