A Poem in Parts: Part 2

Two Days Later

and it’s all coming back to him now.
He thinks he remembers her name
a shallow

pond, or something like that, where
the water is just deep enough to drown
but not deep

enough to worry yourself with ever waking
up. Does she remember his? After all, it
was the day

of love, and they just so happened to be
in the same place at the same time.
The thirteenth,

not a Friday, but may as well have been,
was not a great day for him. He was on the

end of a Dear John note, washed in perfume
and stinking of infidelity. Plus, his name
wasn’t John.

Relationships, he thinks to himself, are
no picnic. There is no red and white checkered
sheet. No wine

hidden in a cute wicker basket that
touches the cheese and bread just so much.
But, was this

a relationship in the first place? He looked
down into his coffee sitting on the red and
white checkered

plastic table cloth of the diner and breathed a
deep sigh. It was just a night of revelry and me
feeling sorry

for myself, he thinks. I don’t even remember
her name. It was Helena. Helena Roche.
And she was



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