I found his obit on Google,

hadn't seen him, barely thought 

of him in forty years

since the day he loaded his car

with half of everything – blankets, pillows,

dishes, albums (we fought over 

who'd get "The Graduate" poster of Hoffman 

and Anne Bancroft's leg) – and drove off 

to I-didn't-care-where.

Once, 20 years later I learned where he was 

from his buddy John and called.

He still taught high school and directed

summer stock in a small midwestern town.
We laughed together, comfortable, 
in our separate skins.

Now an obit with pictures and two columns

in the paper. A well-loved, prominent citizen,

it read, wife, three kids, grandkids.
He wrote 
a children's book and "left the town

with memories of comedy and drama 

that enriched our lives."

Our marriage wasn't mentioned. No need,

I suppose – a youthful take off 

and crash landing best forgotten. But I wish 

I'd had a chance to say goodbye.



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