28 April 2008.
[I don’t think I will ever lose my fascination with mountains.]
When Not Provided With Answers, I Decide to Fill in the Narrative Myself
My manners are not poor enough to ask What was it like
to tell those damn kids to get off your lawn? to your face,
but they certainly could have been better. Many things
certainly could have been better, like an unspoiled
patch of grass, like windows open to spring breezes,
like laughter that follows after you like devoted pets.
Many things certainly could be better. But they’re not,
and they won’t ever be, and decaying papers tell
the stories better than we can. Decay is all around
us now. She stepped out completely without regret—
did you know? Did she tell you? I feel her ghost
when I see him, I see her draped over his shoulder
as he sits. I want to tell you that she looks happy,
but I can’t ever see her face. She won’t allow it.
I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. She’s words
on a screen, she’s a candid photo flipped over
on his bookshelf, she’s the wife I never wish
to be. But I’m telling you, I see her everywhere.