Maybe, I'll get It Right

She carried his cards and letters,
bundled with a rubber band,
in her yellow raincoat.

He stood on the motel roof,
watching the freeway paint the night,
headlights begging the question,
Will I ever get it right?

She mumbles from below.
Depends if you take the right exit
and feed that mutt that you've been ignoring.

She chuckled, fragile as exotic china.
He wanted to catch that laugh,
eat it,
and let it nourish him.

He traced the lines of his face
in a rain puddle,
dreaming of mountains that needed climbed,
thinking maybe
he could fix one fucking thing
before the sun went down.