on the side of the road

staring out at a
quarter moon, she said,
I hate these nights.
these talks, these long
discussions
that go nowhere.
me too, I tell her.
I despise
this self analysis.
these wretched books.
why do we do this to ourselves.
what happened
to us, what put us here
with the air gone out of the tires.
why are we stuck
on the side of the road,
going nowhere.
I don't know I tell her.
I wish I had some answers.
I wish
it wasn't like this,
that it wasn't this late,
this late without so much
as a hug,
a tender touch,
a whisper or kiss.