It has been forty years.
he in New York me in San Francisco.
erasing him with ease for forty years. yet he is coming
and wants to meet for a drink. really?
does he regret the divorce and realize he fucked
up by sleeping with Sally and Sara and Sue?
spending weekends shuffling numbers in his fancy office
on the thirty-sixth floor. but honey
my heartstrings have moved on. happily
Married to a marvelous man. and what
would I wear? certainly not my usual jeans or sweats
that make me look dowdy. which I definitely am. but
certainly not a tight sweater over sagging boobs.
certainly not scads of makeup. which I would have to buy.
I don’t want to fire up his remorse. or do I?
vengeance sweeter than Christmas pie. especially pecan.
rolling the taste on my tongue like a butterscotch disc.
what about the bills for two-hundred dollar “massages”?
Yet we did have some good times, didn’t we? I finger
my rosary of memories. breathless in Florence
standing before David. Coins tossed
in Trevi Fountain. but honey do I really want
to reminisce? do I really want to spend strung-out nights
worrying about what to wear? and fretting
that faint embers might gleam again? flaring
with a word, a look, or even a friendly kiss.
maybe best to say I am busy.
for the next forty years.
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
Claire Scott
