We can have – could've had – a good life here,

a great life; children, best behaved, sharing

that gleeful conspiracy they'll never

outgrow but which we presciently forgave.

It’s sad to go. Sad to stay. Sad to stop

wanting those things we can't have anymore,

remiss on icy parquet... The creaking

waits in all directions; must we ball fists

and call it compromise? (Less forgotten

than never quite retained, while amassed like 

sea glass from a remote shoal we’ll never

find again, much less stroll) surprise birthdays

   extend the cold tip of a pizza slice

   when there’s nothing left to complain about.