We saw Pisa but you'll never see Venice.
There is a photo in front of me now--
you in my arms, Libby at my side--three
of us leaning, making the tower right.
That's one thing my therapist would say:
You feel guilty. I’d disagree, but he kept
coming back to it. I’d say I’m hard on myself,
a perfectionist. Take tennis I'd say,
I focus on the work not on winning.
Between half my age and hip the men are
who tuck their shirts these days into jeans.
I rescued a few button downs worn more
than a decade ago at the office
and in business class lounges far away
from home. Far away from you and Libby.
I committed to Hilary I’d wear them
in Venice--not just sackcloth and flannels.
It wasn’t just the sorting and packing
and the move; it was soccer again.
I replaced the belt. The one with a steel
tip and buckle, disintegrating as we speak
by sweat, and bending and sawing and tearing
autumn olive out of the ground. I will
have a stove at the cabin with a fire
you'll never feed. I want to feel less bad.
Guilt is flowering on barren ground.