Next Time

Next Time


The traffic eased and the light changed.
Sometimes crossing the park
they imagined more than the park.
Sometimes crossing the park
they imagined nothing and spoke of little.
A friend moved. A friend married.
New plays opened. The bars filled.
And in the middle of most sentences
they thought they would say something different. 
And in the middle of some days
they thought they would be someone else. 
More films about love. More books about war.
Did anything really surprise them?
They wore black to the party. Drank often. 
Asked for things they had quit. 
Saw people they knew not to see.
That was half of it anyway. 
(The rest couldn’t be gotten.)
The rest ended in restlessness.
Open signs glowed. The nights passed. 
The mornings repeated away.