April 5 comes to an end
without a poem. Today was
full of promise in the morning, then
I watched you sip beer from a coffee mug
all day long. Decades passed.
Husbands and lovers
walked by the river to watch it rise
past flood levels of 1945.
Then soup, thrice boiled, served with salt and bread,
and home so late, the darkest moon sadly waned.
Computer connections lost along the way, clean sheets
Crackled into midnight.
A star tattoo red and yellow marks your arm.
I fall asleep to dream of poems unwritten, the
words not quite carrying this day with you.
Out of not writing a poem, you've written a fine one.
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