I am not sorry
for the hours I have stolen
away from your busy life.
You should have given them freely.
I was trying to teach you that.

You were such a poor student,
professing love, then
rushing off hither and yon.

Early morning flea markets
spawned caches—
rental garages stuffed with treasures
that didn’t fit into a house
 already filled with me
years before you moved in.

You picked things up
in driveways
and on curbsides,
widows in the seat next to you 
on bargain flights alone to Mexico.

You snatched me
from that singles party
before I even got my coat off.
Eye trained at the door,
you knew lonely

when you saw it.
my Ford Econoline camper van,

you drove me off to most of California,
then to Mexico,
while I tried to teach you how to be
where you were. Pouring salt on your tail,
trying to hold your gaze.

And I am not sorry— either for what I asked of you
or for throwing away the rest of you—
that busy bee, buzzing from bloom to bloom
to see what it could find.

For NaNoWriMo 2020, day 13, we are to write an apology for something we’ve stolen.

10 thoughts on “Wheeler-Dealer



    You left me dumbfounded,
    I am just not that man,
    The one who absconded
    with the white Econoline van,

    But I know it was parked
    at a flea market last night,
    and thought you had embarked,
    with another man, after our fight.

    But how would I know,
    that I’m no longer your fellow,
    you are always on the go,
    ending up at Lake Chapala,

    so stop fussing about, all of those things,
    picked up by him along the way,
    that stuff which another man brings,
    just shut up now, that’s all I can say.

    No more ballads to you I will sing,
    no more day old bread,
    or Ropas Usada I will bring.
    I think you are just sick in the head~!


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