I.
pondering
the inscrutable
implications
of a “normal life”
a life of crimes
not committed –
haunted
by the presence
of some lost,
half-forgotten,
not-really-expected
possibility –
wondering why,
in this prosperous
world, where even
the waitress
practices chopin
preludes in her
spare time
everyone should be
so fucking disappointed
II.
on the couch,
book in hand
a sudden impulse
to tell my wife
about myself –
after ten years,
she must have
forgotten a lot
her cell-phone
rings, she answers,
i forget why
i wanted to do this
III.
tired of
living her life
by someone
else’s motives
tired of
measuring her
days by someone
else’s time
me wondering,
if the past
can be erased by
simply moving forward –
out my window,
across the river,
a cemetery;
white markers
on a green slope –
i try to comprehend
a broken marriage
but for some reason,
all I can think about
are white wedges
in a graveyard