Rich Land

Your house then smelled of lake and damp and cold.
At five, you’d left us, landed elsewhere: Here–
mismatched furniture, a fridge of beer,
a house of bachelors and Playboys stored
in the bathroom.  It was a farmhouse, old,
no farm now, but woods.  A concrete dam near
to “waterfall,” stray cat, huge tree:  Five years
will will magic even when life’s on hold.
But memory evades truth.  I search maps
to rediscover that place you went–where?
I mix up homes; nostalgic sadness paints
in certain colors.  I ask–to fill gaps:
“Why?”   “Her choice.  I just wanted to be fair.
I thought all I had to do was to wait.”

 

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