note to an ex-husband
by Janet Ward
on the walk across town
the morning sun blasts at corners
where buildings abruptly cease
and gargoyles look out for me
crossing lexington between bumpers.
and then, when the light fades
at six o'clock on the walk back
Mister Softee waits
at sixth avenue
with a tall sweet cone
that tastes like cream
and lasts all the way
to eighth avenue,
where a girl can use her napkin,
wipe her mouth, and
toss it perfectly away
into the purple-line bin.
that's the moment i'd like to see,
when it all comes clear,
that little turn i made
and where we went:
what was lost,
and what wasn't.
