If we hadn’t broken up, you’d be arriving now
Trotting in your awkward gait, through bouts of rain
to my basement flat, where we’d compound again
My eyes that last night, as I read for you,
– stinging linger, have to make do
with a story,
a homework assignment
you’ll never get to
It’s over forty minutes
since the end of your shift
Stretching credibility
at even your slowest drift
And though the garden’s pretty from my window seat
tomorrow if the sun is out,
I’ll make those grasses bleed
Today I ironed my shirts,
from the pile in which they’d grown
this evening watched Billy Collins read
tonight jerked out this poem
It’s fifty seven minutes since you left the place we met
and over a week since you were mine Colette
and just a day since we stopped talking
though if you were to walk in,
all would be forgiven
With each minute
anisomycin erases
that imagined you
Leave your response!