A thread, stitched into the wind
unravels from its design.
And from the open window
which cools my sweaty neck,
pigeons feed from the sill.
A dirty motel room offering nourishment
from its breast of rusty guardrails
and gutters collapsing under the eaves.
Here, only the hallway raises the corner of its mouth
and only the hinges creak a greeting.
Sometimes, I see him still,
black beard hidden in a crowd
I look for his brown fingers
his lips hanging over his laughter
yet all the while, the wind
still struggles to change direction.