You’re leaving us
the things you found (we found) so hard
to speak about—the books, the films,
the high beam on your car, political shenanigans
that split us wide apart, the things we never
could agree upon, you on the right,
me on the left.
I well recall the night before the Iraq invasion,
shouting at you over quaking scallopini at Valdarno’s,
tears streaming down my face, my specs misted over—
can’t you see?
can’t you see?
why won’t you see?
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