Red Bathrobe
You’re standing in the doorway in my red bathrobe,
one arm stretched out into the sun, a cigarette burning at the tip.
You’re leaning on the jamb, talking
about ghosts or contrails, the loneliness of Tony Soprano,
the compound eye of the housefly.
And so, Beloved, I can’t tell you it’s useless—
despite your intentions, the smoke billows in.
I ruined it between us.
Oh, you helped—I admit that.
But the dernier cri is: I hurt you and you left.
Such an old story.