If he’s perturbed at all by
wasp, twirling in week-old
or dismayed at the ruin of what’s
of their ficus—its leaves shriveled
dropping like question marks on the
he refuses to concede any of it.
His was a talent for beginning; but
past the shallow bluster of
he found her to be an acquired
even a single malt Scotch. He’d deny
using the toothbrush she left behind
and claim that photographs of her,
together, didn’t upset him, that
taken down to mute the walls; he’d
get used to the colors she chose.
And he’s been too busy to buy new
so the unfaded rectangles still mock
the weakness of his endgame.
to suffer through her favorite
he sips diluted Scotch and wonders
one wants to acquire a taste for
If you have any comments on this
poem, Allen Weber would be