The air conditioning whirred and died

The air conditioning whirred and died.

He'd slammed the door, a final sound.

I sat on the bed, just to abide,

my knuckles white, my body bound.

I pulled the drawer, a sticky drag,

looking for a pen, a scrap.

And there, the Bible, worn like rag,

open to the same old trap.

Job 38:12. The page, it wore

a crease so deep, it seemed to yawn.

Some other soul had been here before,

waiting for the awful dawn.

The veneer on the drawer peeled back,

a sliver of wood, raw and light.

Another night, off the beaten track.

Another fight, fading into the night.