There were zinnias lining the garden entrance Common flowers The eye forgets To track A path
that led to so many shades of dahlias The bench Was it on the bench? They sat on the bench
It was a weekday Garden mostly empty There was Sun and still more sun
Squirrels playing games With each other fat-breasted Robins
Hopping here and there Fingers hoping Fingers touching then pulled away back stiffens
Something in the air shifts Maybe She already knew He kept talking about leaving
There was a time When they both would dream aloud But now She kept her words
to herself She was leaving without him Would she tell him