There's a sadness that comes
when you realize
moving on is not so much a thing
as an occupation. A rare pain.
A leaving of the scene
of something like a crime. The lights
go down and you put on your hat
and the eyes move to a door.
Little by want, you ask
for those two seconds more.
They aren't coming. Never will.
Fumble for a lighter.
It's not there.
Second time tonight.
Ask for keys.
They tell you "no," with difficult emphasis.
Remeber you don't where you parked.
Can't recall the stories
if there were a
gun to your chest.
Too early for flowers. Too late for
whatevers. Sit down kind of sadness.
Moving on. Not a thing. Nor occupation.
A rare pain when you realize. Comes.
