Divorce

Sometimes we're ready to throw the roses out
onto the asphalt where they will not grow,
but unwillingly let their lives pigment the synthetic ground.

Sometimes when the television is flickering
through the blinds,
I imagine myself on the front lawn,
straining to see you inside.
I imagine you taking the baby in your arms,
kissing your partner goodnight,
the three of you ascending the stairs.

I, with feet firmly rooted
between blades of grass,
croon dirges into the opaque sky.

On this night
I imagine that I own Jupiter,
the space gasses, and the strange natural beauty
of Eastern European women;
the nutrients that keep the soil rich,
and that bud of inspiration
that sets the poet's pen in motion.

On this night
I also own all
you have willingly given up; however,
that I wish to return.