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If I take it all back—
the jagged insults hurled like careless daggers,
the failing stargazer lilies and their accusations of neglect,
every unconscionably late anniversary gift—
could there be room left for negotiation?

Or, if not, an available room somewhere
with walls painted the color of possible pardon?

Withhold not thou thy tender mercies from me.

Despite the extrapolated significance
of my past misadventures,
I’d like to believe I am not
among the lowliest of God’s creatures,

and that I’m not the intended subject
of a newspaper headline that reads:

“Twice-Bitten Fool Risks All On Obvious Long Shot, Loses Bigtime.”

From this safer distance,
I can admit that I miss your heavy smoke,
your strategically-positioned mirrors—

the way you could whip up the heartiest breakfast
using just maple syrup and your body,

how you could stand motionless
in a simple slant of moonlight
and cast a shadow that looked remarkably
like that of a small animal struggling vainly in a vise.

And I’m thinking now of
Barbara Stanwyck’s premeditating husband
at the end of Sorry, Wrong Number
begging his wife to leave the doomed house,
desperately trying to undo her imminent undoing.

And how, eventually,
there comes a point—

call it reluctant acquiescence to
or three-toed epiphany—

a point in that loaded space between
the song’s ending
and when it’s actually over,

a point when you realize
there’s no salvaging miracle forthcoming
and you know you have to hang it up
and let go already

or stand there,
numb,
just listening as the rusted train slinks
toward its next destination without you.