While parked outside a liquor store
along the highway winding through
the Canadian Rockies. We’d stopped
to pick out a bottle of wine,
anticipating romance in the hotel that night.
But the liquor store was closed,
and I’d locked the keys in the truck,
my wallet on the seat beside your purse and phone.
We stood on the empty street, feeling daylight
fade, a chill dropping
from the snow-covered peaks. Our hotel
still a couple hour’s drive beyond us.
Eventually I would pry a narrow window
in back of the cab. You would squeeze through,
tearing your shorts and scraping your shins.
In the dark, a wrong turn would mislead us
miles out of our way, and we’d arrive blurry-eyed,
stupefied to discover our hotel
had no vacancy and no record of our reservation.
Through hard times and wayward places,
I fell in love with you again
in a wayside where we huddled
in the truck, dozing, waking fitfully
to eighteen-wheelers jake breaking on the pass,
you keeping one hand or both in mine all night long.