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
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,”
flow. I am an unhappy man
& nothing more unless a poet
with no better advice,
counts for something.