Early morning, December
I wake, look out the window
at three horses on the hill.
Where there used to be four.

It’s raining (of course).
I drink coffee, lots.
Clean the horse stalls
drink more coffee.

I say to my father,
The farm that sells buffalo goods
down by the Maryland line.
You ever stop there?

No, he says.
I put my barn boots in a bag
then forget them when I leave.
It’s raining (did I say that?).

Six hours from here to there,
sometimes seven, mostly six.
I take a picture of the road
with my cell phone.

One second
of those six hours
(maybe seven)
I take with me.

Winding, two-lane
back roads, no shoulders.
Empty crossroads, flashing signals
I pass the buffalo farm.

Next time, I say
like I’ve said since 1990
when there was 50 lbs. less of me
and more hair.

It’s pouring in D.C.
I stop to eat in Virginia
the sky is purple in Richmond.
I take more seconds with me.

Stolen here and there
they’ll slow time, maybe stop time.
My father won’t get older.
My mother will remember things.

It’s dark now, not raining.
Black highway, red tail lights
a lit-up water tower.
Raleigh is a string of lights.

The dogs jump, bark
run down the driveway
seven times older
than they were when I left.