Alone Still

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