Dusk. I sit on the porch of the cabin.
Wool sweater. Scotch.
Tomorrow it will snow.
Wool sweater. Scotch.
Tomorrow it will snow.
But for now—a clear sky.
Across the ravine a man beats his wife.
I hear them through the pines.
She demands he stop.
It is three hours to the nearest gas station,
four to the nearest town.
I want to sneak onto his property,
take a shovel to his head.
But I can’t. I’m too weak.
How easy it would be for him
to pull the trigger,
take me down with one shot.
Then nothing. Quiet now
as clouds drop from the mountain
and I move inside to build a fire.
I’m here to write without distraction.
No television. No phone.
No man sleeping next to me in bed.
No television. No phone.
No man sleeping next to me in bed.
At midnight I step outside: I must learn
to trust what we think we see
when we close our eyes.
Down the road a figure moans,
crawls from the ditch toward this cabin.
She’s locked him outside.
Tomorrow it will snow.
Tomorrow I will pack and leave.