Howard Firkin
Already last week's paper—so remote
but still familiar. Do you ever pause,
review, reflect, rethink effect and cause?
Do you re-read the letters that I wrote?
Or ball me into fists to light your fires?
I'd like to think you sometimes wear that ink
we spilt in newsprint, smearing words on skin,
a blurred tattoo without of what's within:
an old regret you never need to think.
No one can reconcile their past desires.

I hope I'm wrapped around the crockery
each time you move. Protecting something old
or commonplace. No doubt you'd call that mockery.
I saved you nothing then. Or so I'm told.