Four years ago you left.
Tossed me aside like a Sweet Tart
when your tainted mouth craved mint.
A part of me died when you said
"You can't give me what I need."
Once you liked sucking sours.
You snacked on Jackie Collins like a bored
housewife licking up the trash
dialogue as if it were sweet cream.
I recited Anne Sexton across the New Jersey Bell.
"Too depressing," you said.
You always liked cheap words.
On Fridays we romanced with pot,
take-out and sitcoms.
Lucy and Ethel made us wilt in laughter
like a wax tulip on a hot Connecticut day.
Our very own coushioned rut.
Once you liked that Lazy Boy.
On Saturdays we went to garage sales.
I pouted outside. You returned
beaming like a nipple toting mismatched dinnerware
that belonged to someone dead.
"Something for my hope chest."
You always liked a good bargain.
A lifetime later and I sit in this darkened
theater ignoring the sun like a roach.
I think of Lucy, her mouth pregnant with chocolate,
and I cry remembering I'm alone still and that
once you liked my smile.
poem and photo copyright Robert P. Langdon