The Beauty of Lost Ships
By Matthew Gleckman

Now it is too late and you have lost her with your indifference.
Outside the gray-shingled house the air is thick and perfumed-
heavy with the scent of cut grass, of manure, of new-blooming flowers;

Now it is too late in July, the third year of your marriage, and as you sit
and watch in silent protest she dresses before you-before the full-length mirror,
the curls of long blond hair falling over white back and slightly upturned
breasts;

Tonight, she will tell you, she plans to go out with friends. She will say
she wants to dance and as she buttons the top button of her jeans
she will tell you not to worry and not to wait up;

Now she is out on the highway, her car windows wide open and the warm
starry blackness of night closing in: aybe she will count the dotted
white lines along the highway; maybe she will push the accelerator to the
floor;

Now she is in the city dancing to the slow-building rhythm of music, men
swaying to the pushing, pulling arch of her body. And as you sit at home in
silence you think about the beauty of lost ships.
And now you know that it is too late and your nights will be
growing longer.

Matthew Gleckman is a writer living in Issaquah, WA. He has worked as a journalist for numerous newspapers and magazines throughout the western United States and his poetry and short fiction have been published in a number of magazines and anthologies.