So I Could Have Something Again
The other night I bought a copy
of her old book of poetry.
I’m not sure why.
I’d been drinking a bit
and thinking about things
that have gone.
I’d long since gotten rid of the photographs
the texts, the underthings.
I guess I bought the book
just so I could have something again.
Like I said, I’d been drinking.
I’m browsing through it now,
hearing her voice.
She’s not as good a writer
as I remembered her to be
and there’s some comfort in that.
But when she was on, she was on
which is more than you can say
And even the not so good poems
are still uniquely hers, which is
also more than you can say for most.
On the page she’s tough and mean,
all sex and trouble and above all else
a burning desire to live.
Her softness doesn’t come
through much, or her humor.
But she was sometimes soft
and I’ve never known truer laughter.
But all of this was years ago.
I don’t think she writes poetry anymore.
You can’t find her on social media.
Just another ghost in a world
lousy with ghosts.
I guess it’s good that I don’t have to see
who she’s flirting with, her dumbass kids
or who she’s married to.
I thumb through it a while then give the book
it’s rightful place on the shelf, wedged in
between Keats and D.H. Lawrence;
all those tough sexy poems she wrote
for everyone but me.