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Michael Robins
Like a Country Western Song
Then the first day you don’t remember crying, then another passing beneath the trees, down the lamplit walk & into this new push of time. Then the keepsake of a pocket clacking in the hum of the dryer. A friend’s older sister, shirtless, jumping into the river below. Then a someday novelist & her dog knotted in a handkerchief on the end of a stick, carried in a scene from someone else’s life. A neighbor asks our daughter about the ambulance that morning at her home. Then like a sentence. Then the water wiped clean from either hand & promises, promises, promises. At the end of the century, last call, I told a tired stranger I’d put her in a poem. I remember now nearly everything.