Lament

Someone is dead.
Even the trees know it, 
those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, 
all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
I think...
I think I could have stopped it, 
if I'd been as firm as a nurse 
or noticed the neck of the driver 
as he cheated the crosstown lights; 
or later in the evening, 
if I'd held my napkin over my mouth.  
I think I could... 
if I'd been different, or wise, or calm, 
I think I could have charmed the table, 
the stained dish or the hand of the dealer.  
But it's done.
It's all used up.
There's no doubt about the trees
spreading their thin feet into the dry grass.
A Canada goose rides up,
spread out like a gray suede shirt, 
honking his nose into the March wind.  
In the entryway a cat breathes calmly 
into her watery blue fur.
The supper dishes are over and the sun 
unaccustomed to anything else 
goes an the way down.