Fault Lines - Jan 13 2022

 

Fault Lines

Jan 13 2022

They’re 3 hours behind

on the west coast.

So while here, the sun has set

and arctic air has settled in,

it's rush hour traffic

in California

on a hot and humid afternoon.

So when something happens close to home,

does it happen there

before or after us?

Like thunder after lightning, the sound of a gun,

you're dead

before you hear it coming.

And time itself is slippery;

slowing, the faster you go,

speeding up

as you get older.

But when she called, and I picked up

it was if the clock stopped;

we were together

over middle America

and time no longer counted.

Although her voice seemed older, somehow

and I felt rushed;

if distance makes the heart grow fonder

it also pushes us apart.

3 hours, 3,000 miles,

and the San Andreas fault

steadily widening.

I pictured sunlight and warmth.

While she knew I like it cold

and cozy.

Here, when we cuddled in front of a fire

on a Hudson Bay blanket

and went through the last of the wood.

And there, when we both lay naked

on sun-warmed sand

lulled by the sound of the surf.

That time we ignored the warning

about the undertow

and she swam out all alone.