Night’s Grace
a predawn Sunday morning
the beauty of the still slumbering city
her neon streets placid and empty
as the face of a woman
who drives you mad
when she’s awake
but at least you love
to watch her sleep
love to lie beside her
and listen to her breathe
when she is as far from you
as the stars, dreaming
and you tell yourself
that this means something
that this means anything
that this peaceful eggshell surface
swaddled in night’s grace
is thick enough
to bear your heaviness
through another day
Route 80
at work, I step out for a little break
behind the building
about a half mile away
is the interstate—route 80
a couple thousand miles east
and about forty years ago
a man came home late from work
he came through the door
with a blast of winter air
saying Big accident...
route 80 was like a sheet of ice
a tractor-trailer jackknifed—
but his story was interrupted
by his only son
who rushed him
slammed into him
like a pint-sized linebacker
and grabbed him
around the waist
and the man grunted
and tousled the boy’s hair
and said, Easy, son....
today was a tough one
the boy stood there
hugging his father
he stepped up
onto his steel-toed boots
as Dad walked them both
around the room
the boy could smell oil and machinery
feel the cold emanating
from those blue coveralls
now, as he watches the traffic
whizzing by
or sometimes
when he’s caught in a bottleneck
on old 80 himself
breathing exhaust fumes
and grinding his teeth
he remembers
Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His work has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest poetry collection, "Night At My Throat," (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.
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