THE TROUBLE

The trouble with loving you
is
you are everywhere
except here.

In the ashy Camry,
the battered bumper
I pull up behind.
From Kansas

You are the cyclist
speeding by,
a head buried in a chest
avoiding bugs. And me.

Or riding the 147.
I remember the bumps
jolting our bones.
I remember our bones.

You are in an Emily Dickinson phrase
or line
that moved you
while I stayed still

across the table,
coffeehouse marble, shaker chairs,
light cream, no sugar please.
Nothing sweet.

I peer into
the faces of masses
all of them gaunt
none of them you

They see the expectant brightness
of my face belying
the dark emptiness
beneath.

The trouble with losing
you
Is the fact I face
of failure.