Waipahu Thursday

[aenaria]

Hugging the white towels
folded and fresh from
the dryer in the garage

I step outside
into the evening cloaking
the hot driveway,

see the houses all in a row
on this island street,
catch the scent of
frying onions

the night's wearing
a dress sequined with stars
I can't name,

and I am so alone--

and yet,
so aware of how you
are somewhere too hot,
or too cold,

or terribly,
terribly starless.