Chris

I married Kathy. She wanted to save me from you,

my fate. Our sons are Tom and Andy. Both attend 

the Newark College of Engineering. In summer,

we drive to the house on the Jersey Shore.

We shared that bed one stormy night —remember?—

slipped off, doing eighty down the Parkway. 

You were afraid I’d hit a deer. Sundays in Roseland, 

we, like all good Catholics, go to mass.

But where are you now, my fine young lover?

Where are you now?

You popped my cherry, 

took me all the other wonderful ways 

because you couldn’t get enough of me, 

you said. You scoffed at Hank, 

my faithful friend, and vowed your love

at New Year’s, toasting, “To the beginning!” But 

I abandoned you —myself, I guess— and she...

she leaves me cold. On winter nights, 

I drive to the beach house, sit, and wait 

and listen to the surf.

                    Kathy

He stares at the TV, but it isn’t on. 

What does he see beyond its gray reflections?

I saved him, but it’s a prison cell— 

this life, this death we share. 

The children didn’t cancel out my loss, 

and Hank’s a help, although at times I wonder.

He never mentions Kenneth, though,

and I wouldn’t call his hand. But 

I can’t endure those awful hours when 

he drives into the city late at night.