Distant Stations

i found an old rock in the dry dirt outside the door of my motel room. it was a triangle with soft rounded edges and a split down the middle of one corner. it was darker than english moss. green like the soft frills of a peacock's plume. i waited for you, but i never told you where i was. it was you who taught me how to write these kinds of equations. i waited on the steps for you, and i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot. you taight me how to listen to these distant stations. distant stations. i saw the sky break. i threw a rock at a crow who was playing in the mulch of some rose bushes by the motel office. missed him by a good yard or two. i sang old songs from nowhere. los angeles. albuquerque. i said a small prayer for the poor and the naked and the hungry. and i prayed real hard for you. i waited for you, but i never told you where i was. it was you who taught me how to write this kind of equation. i waited on the steps for you, and i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot. you taight me how to listen to these distant stations