I meet you at the top of the drive as you pull in.
Three hours past due, Labor Day leftovers lukewarm.
Your music blaring
but for the exception
that it’s Yanni
and I can’t help but wonder
how that would be mildly offensive
in the least.
We talk briefly of your weekend at the casino.
You saw him in concert,
entering through the back
where the spectators come in
playing instruments he’d had
since he was in high school.
Sixty-one now, just a few years younger
than you, you can’t imagine
how he can go on like that
three songs straight
standing on a chair.
mere feet away from him,
you gave him a thumbs-up
and he winked in return,
continuing to play.
We talk of your girlfriend
(how long you’ve been together
I can’t fathom.)
She’s in the Meadows again.
It was all your fault.
You had a bad day at work.
Doing 83 in the company truck,
the police didn’t catch you,
but the higher-ups at the company did:
you’ve been written up.
Dinner was ready when you got home
she’s good like that.
You couldn’t help but bring your work home,
and be angry at her for no reason.
You can’t remember what you said,
but it wasn’t nice.
Tuesday, she said she was ready to go in.
Wednesday, she called the cops, and even though
she asked to go, they wouldn’t take her.
Thursday, they never came.
Friday, two staties and a local boy
picked her up. She went along willingly.
No fight left in her.
You saw her today:
she could barely keep her eyes open,
her head down the entire time,
not remembering what she had for lunch
or if she had even had it,
like ice in cold, cold water
trying to revive someone,
or cold enough to take out a kidney,
or a heart, which you already had.