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
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, finally,
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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