Green Peas at Stake

Heresy

I gaze into the old photo album,
for
regret,
a secret vice, so loyal,
grabs the heart like a vise,
never deserting,
and I recall you showing me
your old dog cuddling the stray kitten:
“See, how unlikely!
If they make it,
why can’t we?”

But I, too juvenile too unwise,
believed in the silly counsel of others
in my clumsiness,
since you, an ancient poet,
had already written your past
in volumes and tomes.

Now, thirty-two years later,
in broad daylight,
no more are there stars
to wish on,
and
a gibberish,
akin to smoke spiraling up
through the chimney,
rises inside my mind:
“Why do I still weep
for not dancing
with you?”

This may be heresy,
but I think,
then,
if I knew,
where to stand...
I’d stand beside you.
If for nothing else,
I’d have good photos
to show for my life.