The man who pumped my gas today sang softly to
himself in Hindi. I think he was singing to the ache
in the place where winds used to blow, east past the
highway that cuts his small town in two.
I know how it feels, how distance cleaves
the syllables of home in half, the way my
tail lights must look like the setting sun,
falling asleep over the wrong ocean.
*Music: Mi Mancherai