I could write you a love poem. It might make everything easier. You could recite the thing driving from my house to your house to his house, practice the packed punches of iambic meter and rhyme, finally grasp the subtlety of tone, comprehend that flow means nothing to the edifice and foundation of a well fabricated compound sentence. I could castigate the busy morning sun and make your double bed the equidistant of creation. It might loosen your thoughts while you lie naked next to him as he moves to make you forget our night walks through miles of snow packed city streets wrapped in endless laughter. Gives every swollen inch of himself to make you remember I bounced the check book-- the vodka clinging to my breath, the taste of another woman against my lips, the fifteen pills swallowed each day so I wouldn't knock the lamps over or kick the dog or eat fast food or sleep with my back to you. I could write an epic casting your lover as Hades or a monstrous sea urchin with a thousand throbbing tentacles, and you as some perfect Bacchanal goddess over an elfin fairy world. But I am a man of simple words like gin and bourbon and wine and women no longer have shape since I've started drinking again to calm the shakes, and kill your goddamn smile, and my wallet is only half full or half empty and I still misplace my glasses but can always find my car keys, but the grocery store seems lonely now. I could write you a poem to make things right but I am not a poet, and the next time you drive by my house I will not be home.