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Purple Bathrobe

You’re standing within the doorway in my purple bathrobe,
one arm stretched out into the solar, a cigarette burning on the tip.
You’re leaning on the jamb, speaking
about ghosts or contrails, the loneliness of Tony Soprano,
the compound eye of the housefly.
And so, Beloved, I can’t inform you it’s ineffective—
regardless of your intentions, the smoke billows in.
I ruined it between us.
Oh, you helped—I admit that.
However the dernier cri is: I harm you and also you left.
Such an outdated story. What stays is the ache.
Just like the moon, hunk of rock chipped off, however by no means gone.
Generally it appears I stumble round
zigzagging from wreck to wreck. What foolishness
to suppose I’d be wiser or luckier or extra blessed.
And in spite of everything, I used to be granted you for a time
(your just-washed hair coppery and dripping) trash-talking
imply and humorous about everybody we knew. Now
you should be dissing me. I do know
precisely what you’re saying.
However you say it much less and fewer.
I’ve by no means been grateful sufficient. I at all times need extra
after which extra. That final time, you left the crushed
stub of a Salem on the window ledge. It took years
for the delicate paper to dissolve, for the chopped-up leaf to crumble,
the strands of filter to lastly come undone
and be carried away within the wind.

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