Aging Miss Forty
     dating twenty-seven-year boys
          is done with old men.    




22.vi.11

It should be easy

     just letting each other go . . .

so why is it not?



      27.iv.11

From grey Nebraska
          approaching Colorado
                    sun foretells new life.

          19.iii.11

Days become decades
          as rejection replaces hope;
                     she just doesn't call.

a father and son
     once lost for generations 
          trade rhythm and rhyme


what we couldn't speak
     through that growing up clutter
          we have found in time

     7.iii.11

My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.

Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
“The folks are as good
as the people” he’d declare.

But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
   rarely
            as good
                         as the people
     the pitcher as the batter
     the husband as the wife
     the striker as the goalie
     the salesman as the prospect
     the child as the parent
     the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.

Then you
know:
“It’s all over
        but the crying.”

Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
“it’s over?”
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
        How victorious is victory?
        Who is defeated in defeat?
        What is the final score?
        Who won again?

The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
                                                    beginnings,
                                                                ­          and
                                 rebeginnings
                of life
shared and                                                              ­                             solitary.

So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores

so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?

        18.i.11

From the other room
I listen as you explain the many, many, many
reasons, things, times, and appointments
that necessarily mean
the end
of us

The otherness and incidentals
of the often forgotten
details and to-dos
of lives
better
and happier lived

From the other room
I listen as you describe your life in words of
painful regret, missed opportunities and hopeless futures
that don’t exist
so very much
for me

The pain and ingratitude
of a poor life
disrespect and disregard
becoming the
ante
of daily living

From the other room
I listen as you check emails and vmails and texts
of agreement, refreshment, and immediate joy
that shower down
from new confidantes
not me

The pleasure of escaping
from the marital mundane
dancing and drinking
re-becoming
the woman
admired

From the other room
I remember the choices we made
when agreement was agreeable and available
that made lives
worth
living well

The simpleness of a look
the knowing confidence
day in and day out
when someone,
You,
cared.

         10.iii.10

Flying over Lake Michigan
at 20,000 feet
in the dark
approaching Chicago.
When you think about it
it’s
Improbable.

Why do I suddenly feel
more secure
over land
with more to
crash into?
It’s
Irrational.

Darling,
who is not my darling
anymore,
flying
crashing
wondering
worrying
losing . . .
it’s
Impossible.

But from this perspective
as landing gear engages,
lights flicker
traffic moves
Christmas appears
in lights and filled holiday mall lots.
As our hopes compete
I return
to you
Incomplete.

14.xii.10

It’s always a strange feeling
when the kids pull away
on Christmas morning to
open anew their presence
at mom’s.

Only to return indoors
from seeing them off
to find my more recent kids
equally pulling away to
play with their new toys
and gadgets.

Inside, my wife pulls away
retreating from years of
holiday shopping and cooking and regrets
and I retreat to write
a poem or virtually connect
with others.

And I realize that retreat
is normal, not a casualty of divorce
just refreshing and treating ourselves to
quiet rejuvenation.

And tomorrow we’ll regroup anew
and begin the count toward
next year.

25.xii.10

Sitting high atop ****** Mountain
I’m feeling my phylogeny overwhelm rationality
perturbing stirrings
both primitive and powerful
considered improper at the moment

Surrounded by beauty natural and athletic
of heights, valleys, children, and women
I’m keenly aware that
unnecessary stresses
grow into other messes

Hours melt to days
and I wonder where, how and with whom you are
time slips away
forgotten feelings
dry permanently on the hot summer pavement

Ontogeny . . . phylogeny . . . freedom and fear
who am I within my existence?
to relieve my mind of overthinking
I must
overcome the fear of underthinking

And what say you
amid the quiet chaos of our souls
beyond putting one foot in front of
the other
as we fall apart our separate ways?

     26.vii.10
     (****** Creek, CO)

Familiar sounds
of your evening toiletry
soon will be no more.

        5.iii.11