I found the poetry book in the clearance bin.
Your book, Dan.  From Jean.
Once you'd underlined passages and turned down pages.
And now, here it is, with Jazzercize and Wham.
That strange smell, a C.S.I. cross of cat lady house and moss.
What path took it here?
Your notes, still visible in the margins.
Did your love of verse die, or did you?
Your belongings piled into a box without thought
With texts deemed of no value.
Or did age make you lose interest in words
As the everyday beat-down blues hit?
The baby, the bills, gutters and grass...
Was Jean an old lover, discovered at last?
Fini avec Jean.  With  poetry.  With the escape to Paris.
What books interest you now, Dan?
The mundane mechanics of fixing a toilet?
Or do they beckon you yet; does Lord Byron still tempt?
Like the ice cream hidden, but not forgotten.
Should we ever meet, Dan, I have your book.
My own passages now, along with yours.
We can escape together.