A slam without a goodbye,
and pangs of the world ending
by the sixth-floor elevator
until you run out, arms extended,
and moist eyes meet moist eyes
as the tough old globe spins on.
Anger’s a thing of darkness, but
forgiveness is Shakespearean: it calls for
gardens and dances, lanterns strung from trees.
I am no dancer, so instead I’ll tell you
that rage, like everything else of late,
has suffered a sea change: no longer
a bleak Bermuda Triangle
in which my flailing ardor drowned,
it’s a bit of trash, a bottle cap
bobbing on gentle waters—
much like the way this awful plaid carpet
absorbs a tear that will have dried
next time the elevator brings me here.
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.