I'm up early, patching the roof of the summer house.
The gaunt tall cedars and their sparse ashen leaves
have a kind of Victorian gold in the morning March light,

and you're smiling at me from the kitchen window
when I stand beneath the seas of years and rub the
dried-up caulk from my palms,

and your bed-head hair is big and beautiful behind
the slow-fogged panes. It's the gentle hiss of the vinyl
left on after its last song when we forgot to turn off 

the lights last night. It's a bitter dream that fades and 
peels like the old wallpaper. I'm sure you had your 
reasons. More than I can ever say about myself.

The faint afternoon spring light slowly hushes the
fog from my breath, and the porch-swing tosses
like an insomniac in the gentle bright wind.

It doesn't even matter if there was someone else.
I'm sure you had something better in mind. More
than I can ever say about myself.