Interval

Left before the thing was over.

Got on the interstate going east

for no reason—radio off,

the reflectors in the left lane

hitting the headlights one by one.

One, then one, then one.

Like something keeping count.

I took an exit I didn't need

and sat in a gas station lot,

engine running.

A man in an orange vest

was checking a tire.

The fluorescents over the pumps

made the pavement look like a holding area.

I wasn't hungry. Wasn't anything.

Just not ready

for the apartment—

the hook, the coat,

the refrigerator cycling on,

the specific quiet of a place

that knows you came home early.

So I sat there.

Then got back on the ramp.

The reflectors again.

Same spacing.

Same counting.

Whatever they were counting toward,

they weren't stopping for me.