twenty-four years

for 24 years you have
lived only ten miles away,
past row after row of brown
shingled houses, one honda
dealership and at least four
cuban restaurants and i know
you still play our scratchy
rod stewart, or maybe cat
stevens and i turn, think
your hand will grab mine and
we'll pretend for one long,
back-paged night that you didn't
leave me for a woman with peter
pan hair and that i stayed
the angel with henry moore
thighs who fucked you till
time came and went and
there were no more nights
to forget or remember-ever.