Tonight I stay in an expensive hotel. When I unlock the door to the room, it is lovely and familiar, and makes me instantly, deeply sad: the two neat beds, the angled white pillows, the window opening into sky.
Bad news from a former student.
Tonight I eat dinner in the deserted downtown; the street lights flash red and green but no one goes. Dinner is amazing: bean and bacon soup, retro red ale, chicken pie, a tiny perfect cup of yellow custard with fresh red blackberries on top (but they are red). The place and desert are recommendations from a friend. Wyoming makes me think of my friend, where she came from, and miss her.
I am going through your old towns, friends, and I miss you, and now I know a little bit more how you became you, what shaped you, what made you want to leave. I can see you driving to the limits, and looking back; there is dust on your truck and I love you.
Then, in the expensive bathroom, I’m washing my face, my pale face in the mirror, my cloud of dark hair, jeans, flannel shirt, tank top, sparkling sweater. The thick, square garnet pendant clunks against my collar bone, the water is cold, and I think hear them, the two lost boys.
And I think I will write it down tonight.
Tonight I will get no sleep.
Tonight I sleep in Laramie.
