'Til I'm Blue In The Face
All Quiet On Sara's Side of the Bed
in the mattress where Sara used to sleep,
making a zag with her body
like a bolt of pale lightning
to lie beside in the dark,
dry shadowless storms in our ears.
What strange dreams she must have had,
sleeping in that pot-hole.
Often she mumbled the names
of federal agencies out of sequence:
the Library of Revenue,
the Department of Food and Transportation,
the Smithsonian Institute of Internal Congress.
Her voice was foggy
like some late night October
drive through Damascus or Westminster.
Now it's quiet on her side,
no lightening, no long empty sounds.
Every so often I go to Washington
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