Each Saturday at two p.m., your voice
would walk me from the Center to my car,
a chance to reconnect since I’d left you
in bed. They took away my Saturdays,
so now I work the Wednesday shift from five
to ten. Tonight, some kids looked up the sex
offender site and found a hundred hits
in our zip code alone. I walk behind
brick buildings to the gurgling goldfish pond,
remember once when walking by I saw
a mallard that I swore was stuffed until
it twitched. I tried to make you see it, too.
Green feathers shone like broken Christmas balls
beneath the tree or shamrock garland on
St. Patrick’s Day when Mayor O’Malley winked
and made me blush. What if I hadn’t gone
to Ireland? I ask aloud. Would you
have found a different girl, another time?
Or was it not too late to fix the things
that had gone wrong? Two figures wait beside
the unlit bus stop I must pass before
my car. I hold my phone against my cheek,
pretend to talk to someone else.