At the party fire pit, he banters with women
he has known since college. Funk from big speakers,
eggplant on the grill, Christmas lights strung
through an avocado tree. He returns a wooden chair
to an ex-girlfriend. He's replaced her broken rung:
no scars, no seams, no mismatched stain.
He's fixing a bicycle rack for another.
All of his exes get along with him and each other,
and years pass. Some recycle as do-overs,
unable to resist a man in love with love.
Before I returned, he assured me he no longer
sought perfection, but I soon became "too this,
too that" again. His twenties, thirties, forties, fifties
look the same on Facebook: a musician on stage,
loneliness hidden inside an upbeat bass.
He scans the crowd for his next ex, unable to choose
between "maybe" and "maybe." Oh, love could never live
up to the promise of those parties! Barefoot dancers,
silver earrings, goblets of minor noir, wood smoke
sifted with ocean mist, moon-drenched under live oaks.
published in Don't Talk To Me About Love
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