6 hours and 11 minutes.
Check.
Le Conte. University. 580. 5.
Done.
Storms dropped in and went away.
Clouds. Rows. Cows. Golden and green hills.
In the hotel lobby, with my girl face on.
While waiting I produce a poem (on the back of last week's sermon script)
about an enormous oak tree, ripped up by its roots,
in front of other little oak trees,
because a storm blew in, with exact precision, from the east.
Geography, wind, fate. Images from the drive? Fearful prophecy?
Yes, but the poem was terrible, really.
A little boy runs around in circles. I watch.
You enter the room. (Keep the girl face on, Emily.)
The little boy notices you and his eyes communicate everything I feel.
Dinner, drinks, little dance.
Right.
Right back into regression.
7am drop off: tears again, but less this time.
Gone. Go ahead. Me too.
Drastically different demands in places far far away from here.
Driver seat greets me. I'm sore,
but kept alive by alternating Thom Yorke lyrics
and knowing I'm returning to a place where the girl face
can fall. No rain on the drive home; only mist.
57. 210. 5. 580. 24. Telegraph. I'm back.
12 hours and 22 minutes total.
Check.