I don’t think about her as before, days when she is far from my mind,
and when I do think of her, certain resentments creep into my heart.
Saw her a week ago coming out of a bank, she looked much older, wore
sunglasses I could not see her sea green eyes, perhaps they had gone
milky by age, like a river after rain. Flashes of remembrance zigzagged
in my head when she was the tree of life, I, like a vine, seeking food
I must have been bloody barmy. There is an art exhibition in the town
I know she will be there; I used to go with her. It starts at eight and
it is seven o’clock and too late. I won’t go, not that I dislike art, but if
I go, it will look as I need to see and hope to speak to her. Our affair is
over, I will not think of her not today or tomorrow, not ever.