O’Hare

It’s always the drive to the airport
when you look at me
merging concern from
the corner of your right eye
in my direction.
You’re worried, you tell me
I look tired
I seem stressed
I didn’t touch my wine.

It’s always the drive to the airport
when you have me
buckled into a corner.
You’re worried, you tell me
I’m working so much
I sound a little hollow
Honey.
It lingers
It’s not sweet.

It’s always the drive to the airport
when my reserves
to sit and listen patiently
have been run ragged
when I feel the phantom ache set in
like bare feet
on concrete.

I sink into the seat
and don’t point out
your habit
the one where you take everything
that keeps me up at night
emptying it out like a bag
picking up each grievance
to test the weight.

You set your findings back down
waving them off
like you went when it wasn’t your turn.

It’s always the drive to the airport
that I don’t have it in me to tell you
your interrogations
drain the light out of me
like the kitchen tap
you still haven’t fixed yet.