The second best way
to spend a wet
but unseasonably warm
Sunday afternoon
once the pile of dishes
has been washed
in water just shy of scalding
and your plans have been canceled
thus saving you from sin
is to listen to the compilation
of sentimental songs that an old flame
assembled for you
ten, fifteen, twenty
years ago
back when there was more
of you worth loving
if only to remind yourself
that you were once deserving
of that sacred gift
from someone you should've cuffed.
The best way, however
to spend the aforementioned
type of afternoon
would be lazily in bed
with that ghost of a composer--
your children off being spoiled
by glowing grandparents
for a few hours as precious
as each note and line
heard now
like belated reminders
of what could exist
in a parallel universe;
not bitter, but grateful
to have have lived it.
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