I didn’t forget you.
I couldn’t.
The sun came through the trees
and I remember the dew and the wet of the
northeastern summer things
and what it does in the ways of making
light and it’s colors
banded, derived from one
glare between the front yard
oak trees of a house not
updated since the 1970s.
I came in slow to my driveway after
because I
wanted to see how much the post
with our house number on it had tilted
I didn’t
Forget you.
I couldn’t.
So when the water rushed down the
driveway and you and your children
stomped the water, and
made it a game
to see how much we could
rid of what’s been collected in
the rain, and the innocence
in the name of puddle jumping I didn’t forget you.
I couldn’t.
When I saw my daughter with tears in her eyes tell me
that she missed when it was less
of me
or when my son told me enough
he didn’t need my help
down the steps, or to hold my hand,
that he’s fallen down twice
I didn’t forget you. I couldn’t.
So why now have you fucking deserted me?