after what seems like
17 days of rain,
and the one you’re with
barking, a vicious dog
over nothing and you’re
caught off guard, spew as
many sewer words as
he’s slogged over you
but it’s still dinner
and you have to sit, stony
across the small table.
Don’t you want to just
pack a small suitcase,
get out, leave everything
behind? Of course
you can’t, there’s the
baby, the poems, the closet
of clothes you couldn’t
ever replace. How could
you leave, your mother
still young, is smiling at
the rail road station about to
start out for an adventure.
When I think of my
mother, smiling with a
friend on a bench outside the
Middlebury rail station,
her black curls, teeth still
white and know how different
the years ahead will be I
don’t even let myself
do more than barely notice
a man or two with dark
eyes on TV news, then go thru
the same routine where
I can try to hope the
night’s dream will not be
a nightmare


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