On the Way Out the Door

You're a picture
I pass on the top bookshelf
on my way out the door,
curly hair, a mole on the cheek,
lake green eyes.

Been awhile since
you've put up a pot of coffee on the stove
or licked a Raleigh coupon
to paste inside your book
a trade-in for a blender, a set of glasses.
Was the redemption center on Third Avenue?
I don't remember.

All these years, living without you,
cringing at the arrival
of every birthday, anniversary,
Mother's Day, finding lilacs at Pt. Reyes
because they were your favorite.
At the birth of my children,
you never made it.

So many things have slipped
into the crease of night,
so many times I needed to call.
Doesn't matter.
I became my own do-it-all.

Not that I wanted to.
Both of us had cultivated a Greek
sense of tragedy knowing how Gods
can be bureaucrats with frail egos
who do things for the heck of it.

Now I know to stop asking for my life to make sense.
Why don't you visit my dreams?