Ben Paynter (Livingston, Montana)

I count the cars as they drive past the window
Four blues since you said everything was fine
The rain flows from the street into the gutters
Over both the yellow broken lines

One red, one black pass by into the distance
Words come much slower than the falling rain
And deep below where pipes have dreamed of reaching
I wish I called you by a different name

And now I think that cars are always driving
To somewhere while their wheels still can spin
Fourteen have passed in total since my asking
Where have you been?