The phone rang late
waking a quite December night.
The call expected yet dreaded,
'Help, I need you tonight.'�

I have to go,
there really is no resisting-
her summons.
The pull of an old flame,
begging for air.

So I go,
haste pushing the momentum towards my past
remembered through sleep-crust eyes.
The traffic, the candy-cane colors/headlights and break lights
blur around me.
My truck moves, its volition its own,
a remembered route.

There, under moth-wing shadows
of an old porch light,
she stands. . . so stoic,
in her washed out aquamarine coat.
Her coffee colored stockings,
so carefully wrestled on,
drooping at her ankles.
The black ribbons in her shoes,
worn bare from tongue-clenched tying.
Her right hand,
Napoleon-tucked in her coat.
Her left hand,
ring-less...clenching...
at the site of me.

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