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Poems


We Break Up

And the next morning I go out early for
a bike ride, hoping to clear my head --
am I really "not marriage material"?
But after half a mile I get a flat.
Wouldn't you know. I walk the bike home,
me in my gleaming helmet, my colorful shirt
and Lycra shorts -- kind of foolish now that
I have been brought back down to earth.
The cleats of my bike shoes clatter
on the pavement, drawing all eyes
to my deflated condition. Sigmund Freud,
I figure, is laughing his ass off somewhere,
in heaven or hell or Vienna, wherever
his shade lingers.

By the basement door, I slip a new tube
in the tire, then head in to shower.
There are still two towels on the bar,
two toothbrushes in the holder, two
different kinds of soap. In a few more days --
I know this from experience -- I will have
forgotten what touching someone else is like.

August, 1999


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