Patternmaker

He opens the scissors
and begins to cut

the details which matter to him
(the origin of the journey,
the car, the mirror loose
on the driver’s door)

from those he has no need for
(the way the air felt like fur
when she held her hand
out the window as they drove,
her need to stop and pee
every fifty miles or so)

then stitches the parts
into a cloak, a story
fitted to what he believes
and to hell with what really
took place (long periods
of absolutely nothing, no talk,
mutual simmering)

since now that he’s done
her perspective is just scraps
on the floor of the motel room

where
he ended up alone
with no one to tell him
that the cloak looks unfinished
and doesn’t fit all that well.