Belgrade Street

 

So, you let her go when you were 29

and in pictures, she’s somebody else’s wife

in timberwolf flannel, with a child

you never met, balanced on her hips.

All you remember is when you were

miles from the beach, she insisted

you lower the windows to smell the ocean.

You were taken by the TV playing Tanked

late into the night, how twilight came softly,

bending down in the darkness

to kiss her knees, where the doctors

had placed bolts, and when it was over,

you slept until noon, you didn’t shave,

you thought you would return to that town.

Now, you can’t remember its name,

you can’t even remember that street you lived on,

still a prisoner writing about a love,

the sun going down on the boulevards,

the shadows gathering at the edge of town.