If there is one thing I should say before you go,
it should not be about standing on some driveway in Pensacola,
baptized by airplanes.
It should not be that the house was bare and there
was no food, but we were young and the airplanes
were like tiny glass toys in the sky,
and there was all of it ahead of us then, there was
this whole life.
No, if there is only time in this goodbye
for one last affirmation,
let it not be of that pond blue summer, or letters
from home, or romance at all. Let it be of love when it’s
more than this love, when it’s not dazzling
or eager or brave—
like an old man before a party,
fixated on a tie, and his wife, waiting
patiently in the kitchen, letting him decide.