Figure on a Wooded Path

Was gone. Of course, no one remembers a thing

Either. You knew this. The child feels so homeless

Thinking about home. Her bouquet of dandelions,

Spiffy and flopping, closed before you saw it.

You were surrounded by accident-prone lovers;

You loved, you surrendered. But the accidents

Puzzled, like hot items cheap on thieves' row

At a flea market; or the jogger new on the block

Who takes your breath away. You wanted to play

And no polite obligation would stand in the way

But then the scent of lilac brushed your shoulder,

You turned, the ones you loved were so far behind.