buried my love

for you
at Forest Lawn.

I don't want the one.

I want me and the 101
on the way
to the award ceremony
where I accept
an orchestra of apologies
one rose on the stage
at a time.

I will collect them
like pennies although
I cannot fit
an I'm sorry bouquet
in my Prius.

If I had a dollar
for every mistake
someone has made
in relationship to me
I could pay
for all their therapy.

my retail therapy
bought the dress
that another man
will take off
one Friday night
when I look my best
and feel like a catch
twenty-two years of marriage
is not marked in my calendar
so I will hopscotch
on lips
until I am convinced
someone wants me
to the point
they are never sorry
for anything
at all.