I
left
you    
at the café while
you were in the water closet
I got on the bus,
handed the driver my last twenty
before I even asked where he was going
I saw you, through the café window
as the bus pulled away,
puffing diesel fumes
in its hissing wake
I saw you, side by side with
the gray reflection of a weathered Apache squaw
who
hunkered outside in the fading veil of smoke    
like a mocking twin who shared the glass and light
with the young you,
white princess with ruby lips
a purse full of treasured trash
and words I did not want to hear
waiting to spill from your mouth
I had been gone two years in the flying fortresses
deafened by the din of their moaning motors,
our machine gun fire
and the nightmare fighters
sent to the blind skies to escort us to hell
I counted the desperate days
and the missions I had yet to fly
until my feet could finally touch ground
and my eyes could see the light of you
then your letters said less and less
and I no longer kept them
folded in my leather coat
two miles from earth,
like the parchment talisman
I once dreamed them to be  
you had left me before
I left you, and I knew, but
‘twas easier to chew a quiet lie
than to swallow a screaming truth
I did wonder if you walked into the street,
if you asked the Mescalero lady
if she saw me leave  
though I did not look back
once the bus passed Lordburg’s lone light
nor did I long for you any longer
in the dreadful night