a poem for certain late drives home

It's this raw spot
in my heart, rubbing
on the drive home
on the dark freeways
The odd feeling of letdown
when nothing was expected anyway.
The time we spend
comparing.
These mis-connections
chemicals and signals
My landscape has no room for you,
my diorama is locked up tight.
We are just along for
the ride.
Feelers
rubbing, failing
making me sore
wisdom being bitterly
absorbed
and the ache is swallowed
cause more of life
must still go on.