as if
the news
of your marriage
is still
a secret
kept
in the mouth
of your bride
you go
to fill
your own
outside
while slapping
to your palm
a new box
of cigarettes
and see
a man
with his back
to you
his pack
half gone
most of it
spent
listening
for beauty-

your daughter
clopping
in heavy shoes
toward some
distant
thing

you’ve both
come to miss