This means nothing,
so pour another glass of red.

Type your words with one hand barely
on the wheel, following the dark line between
Cleveland and your city of 3-star hotels
and cash machines.

                            Take a photo,
so easy to erase, of that home
you have given to Whitman
just to the left of your heart.

So easy to press send—to find
the places where my body bends
to yours.

I can’t remember your face,
though I know your fingers
on the stem, the way you sit,

one leg over the other, trying not
to think too much—you always
think too much.

                         The only way
to keep yourself on this earth
is to make me feel as good as
you wish you could.

Marci Rae Johnson is an editor and writer. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Image, Moon City Review, Main Street Rag, The MacGuffin, Rhino, The Louisville Review, and 32 Poems, among others. Her most recent book, Basic Disaster Supplies Kit, was published by Steel Toe Books.