the tracts where sleep ran 

ducts thru navel 

smoky rivers, freshly stained 

while we wait, fidgeting in a

 too-big waiting room 

too big for just the two of us 

too small for all the thoughts 

too small

for the silence . 

 

it smells like a barber shop 

and the fixtures buzz idly 

bright, but flickering 

and I remember that 

you can't smoke in public anymore .