For Leonard Alfred Schneider.
Life left me six years ago.
Walked out; made me
swallow the change. No
more drive-waiting car, no
futon in its room, no
whiskey in the jar, no clenched
underwear by the floor--but a note.
Scrawled in a too-steady hand:
You don't love me anymore. And
don't listen. And I have needs.
No explaining the growth, like
dishes in a sink, nor the unsaid
separations, like falling asleep.
So I undressed and rehearsed
how things were before.
Found the last record we played
(Lenny!) and let it go, re-told.
Carried the words to the bathroom
where it's read hers and his:
Life's not what it should be, but
what is.
Walked out; made me
swallow the change. No
more drive-waiting car, no
futon in its room, no
whiskey in the jar, no clenched
underwear by the floor--but a note.
Scrawled in a too-steady hand:
You don't love me anymore. And
don't listen. And I have needs.
No explaining the growth, like
dishes in a sink, nor the unsaid
separations, like falling asleep.
So I undressed and rehearsed
how things were before.
Found the last record we played
(Lenny!) and let it go, re-told.
Carried the words to the bathroom
where it's read hers and his:
Life's not what it should be, but
what is.