A crowded room,
You,
Accidentally waiting,
Out of place.
There at the enticements of your pretty-boy escorts:
Oedipally complicated mothers' sons who lavished
Their attentions.
A forgotten decade,
Bottom-of-a-bottle explorations,
Across the rim of a glass,
Salt tears biting.
November came:
You flew away to Germany:
Playing wife to your mental case soldier husband.
A card at Christmas-no return address.
You had never wanted to be found to begin with.

Nancy Hill © January 2002