Wish You Were

Here, an aftertaste of traffic taints the city’s breath, as mornings yawn and bare this street

like teeth. Here, airplanes leaving Heathrow scare this house to trembling; these rooms protect

their space with outstretched walls, and wait. And evenings fall like discs in a jukebox, playing

a song called Here, night after night. Wish you were. Your postcards land in my hall like meteorites.