you tell me to come over and I do,
to hover helpless while you clean.

Finally I can't take it and wipe out
the fridge, that old song from Hee Haw

twanging in my head—Gloom,
despair, and agony on meee. . .

I am trying to cheer myself,
and it is a bitter cheer: Here's to you

leaving me destitute, deprived
of a movie companion and provider

of sliced pears and tea, gossip,
and the Sunday crossword;

bereft of conversation, lurching
with pauses and laced like a punch

with your startling, sly wit;
of margaritas on the porch, freezing

under blankets, even though it's May,
and Hank Williams, Sr., retrospectives.

Gloooom, despairrrr. . .
I scrub my guts out.

You're the only friend I have who’d consider
buying a mint-green polyester suit,

or rent Island of Lost Souls
just to hear the line,

The stubborn beast-flesh creeping back.
In the front room, after the fridge,

I pace tight circles on the barren floor,
an augur turning with grim purpose:

I will not cry.
I will not cry.

You say, You're not going to
start crying, are you?

You look like a little boy
who's lost his wagon.

Already you've finished, and tell me to
come out with you onto the jetty,

where you take my photograph.
I try to look summery.

Then we sit down together
and you eat your lemon sorbet.

I stretch my legs out, wary in the sun,
regarding the tree that swoons

at the edge of the lake. Soon
you’ll get into your yellow truck

and drive away. We don’t say much;
there’s not much we can say. Our sadness

is inarticulate, previous to
the glib deflections of the screen,

beyond the pale of the pop songs.

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