I can't sleep.
Every time I doze off, the traffic light outside
changes, and the cars screech to a halt
or start up and I wake up.
I can't read--
After an hour
I clench my fist, whispering
why didn't I stay home
where things are silent and familiar
and everyone sleeps the same hours I do.

But here!
In this motel,
sheets stiff and scratchy, air stuffy,
he lies beside me
smelling of wine, not bothered
by the traffic outside.
He snarls periodically,
"Will you shut up that whining."

This is how I always see him--on his terms--
noisy motels by traffic lights
and the sinister desk clerk downstairs.
Nothing falls in place.  I lie sobbing
by the man I love because
we are so alien.