Divorce

It wants to be noticed. I look
beyond. Twin hills, forested with pines,
a place to hide on my belly in the understory
safe with grey squirrels and poisonous
mushrooms. No need there to slap
hands over myopic eyes, no need
to turn my back daily on the scales,
the empty, blue bag waiting to weigh
regret, a baby that keeps
putting on pounds. After we met,
the last time, in Costa at Euston,
you with tear-daubed cheeks,
me, already mingled with someone else,
I left. Or did I? The gate
to our compound stood open, the sky
filled its arms with blue. Years went by.  
Still I loitered, even when I lived
in a bigger house with a newer wife
on the better side of town. And you?
I saw you once, through a telescope,
perfecting a red dress, both arms saluting
the sun. You twirled on a summit,
barely looked back, vanished  
through the canvas, leaving me unable
ever to reach the hook, ever to cut
the blue bag down.