From the past
But a few photographs,
A couple of old streets
I revisit,
And some powdery ghosts
That arise
From books
I’ve discarded
Upon my shelves.
Occasionally
I pick up a tome
And peer within
At yellowed pages,
Notes from lectures
And scribbled
Phone numbers
And addresses...
Some not my own.
But yesterday
I found
A paperback
You owned
When we were
First married.
(I taught uptown
And you worked
Downtown)
and never thought
how my literary friends
might intimidate you
or how you felt…
I picked up
A cheap paperback—
30 Days to a Better Vocabulary,
and I remember
the shame I felt
that we made you insecure
and it still stung
when I opened the pages
now brittle with age.
But I couldn’t throw it out—
It was part of you and me
And a reminder
Of your mystery
And my despair
When folded among
The pages
I found a stray strand
Of your red hair.