Poem 13, June 13

Ange, recently widowed

I see you when I go outside to start the Ford.

The air is crisp,

but I can’t see my breath when I breathe out.

I wave at you, but I do not shout

to get your attention. A wisp

of a poem begins to form.

I cross the street,

coming close before you spy me.

You turn toward me & my heart is sad.

In that moment I wish I had

the ability to look into your heart, to see

the entirety of your stress, your discreet

loneliness.

You say,” I wish I were not a human being.”

I ask, “Would you rather be an inhuman being?”

You do not answer.

I say, “You have a young son

who will need you for many years.”

When I say, “Sometimes it is best to cry,”

your tears

flow. I am an unhappy man

& nothing more unless a poet

with no better advice,

counts for something.