Weak End
John G. Young, M.D.
You left a day early
and a night too long
to be with friends
you'd soon be leaving.
You left your wool vest
on my couch, and your toothbrush,
bought that day at Safeway,
you left, bristles up, in the bathroom.
(You'd left your's at home.)
You left lasagna on the lower shelf
and a six pack of Pepsi,
caffeinated to keep you going.
You'd know two husbands,
but when you left my bed,
you were virginal to
tenderness . . . tenderness . . .
You left me thinking of another
I left but did not leave,
months ago.