I look out across the bay to where, if I had better eyes,
I might see Sara Cohen's house. Perhaps she's outside
With her dog. I'm sure she doesn't think of me. I still
Remember how she all-too calmly told me I should go,
And I still can't say what I did. I moulder here, another
Loser, unattractive, unattached, the bay a sort of slash
Of blue above a dismal parking lot. She has another
Lover now, some people we both knew have said.
Voila. There is no going back. I ought to teach myself
To train my gaze on something else.