He sits in his cooled car
watching the moon’s
unclothed glow draw
past the back-lit clouds,

and he thinks about
her stripped disquiet,
her pale, tightened, skin,
how her muscles felt,
under her folding over

and his locking in;
and he can still smell
her on his fingers,
and he pulls out
those screen wipes

and rubs, and rubs,
but she’s still there,
under his wedding ring,
in his sweated palms,
on the locked wheel,

and he is unable to remove
her scented presence,
even with the wet-wipe
of fake pine forests.

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