He will never again ever see an orange VW
and not remember her inside with lake blue eyes
staring straight ahead unable to drive away
through tears nor look once back at him
standing in the pool of light beneath a street
lamp wearing a tea-stained sport coat.
When he gets older with clouds in his eyes
when he looks down upon his own tired feet
the night the light the sight of that goodbye
will be a blossom left on his eye by a flash bulb
a phantom photograph as much a part of him
as his phone number as the pattern on the floor
of the kitchen where he washes dishes to feel
the warmth of soapy water rather than move on
to the remainder of his night by the table
with yesterday’s irises crying to be seen
to the chill pillow case where he lies and remakes
that moment so she looks back at him and smiles.
Sam Culotta is retired and living in Southern California. He is the author of two books of personal essays: Sleeping With Lumbago, and Clueless In Paradise, as well as James Dean Is Dead, New And Collected Poems. His prose and poems have appeared in The Write Place at the Write Time, Avalon Literary Review, Rockvale Review, Cathexis Northwest, and As It Ought To Be.