Two Poems

Two Poems

This isn’t the play I thought I was in, I say, when I go to bed, again, without you. It’s not the part I was first offered, I tell myself as I lie awake.

Yellowstone

Yellowstone

when I can sit quietly with my son,
a struggle that grows harder as he grows up,
so that the memory I choose to unfold
is not the wolf, or the river, or the geysers,
but instead the hour I spent reading to him
beside the washing machines in Bozeman

Suicide Note

Suicide Note

They all pretend to be free spirits, terrorists,
Not by the book just by the letter,
But hey, don’t they all write poetry,
Don’t we all write poetry, these days,