Tuesday, February 22, 2011



I thought we’d keep firm grips of each other’s hand,
each year choose Christmas gifts with knowing care,
include space for the other at every possible table,
in turn listen, lean, push or pull.
We’d make love on Monday, certain of more kisses Tuesday,
eat pasta in Venice, be giddy with Italy and London to come,
stay in, go out, float or flail through moods, over and over again.

We were a couple, a pair, partners, two Musketeers, lifers.
We checked forecasts, were well prepared.
I missed your shift.
You didn’t like the movie, did you?  It was fine.
Let’s eat dinner in front of the TV.  Why not?
Did you write the check, letter, list, card? Not yet.
I forgot your orange juice, paper, medicine. No big deal.

I didn’t know we were coming from our corners, patched-up,
ready for another round, didn’t know we were in a ring,
didn’t see the referee or hear him counting.
I wore a blindfold so opaque that your sucker-punch
blasted me from Maine to Florida. Turns out that I was so sure
of us all by myself,  and you, for awhile, you just went along.

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