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Your best friend’s little brother went away

to college, came back gorgeous and

hilarious with absolutely

no time for you.


In Montana once, in Glacier Park,

your then-true love (a wild man) said, “Let’s go

to Canada—it’s right over there,”

and you said, “Why?”


You didn’t go, but now you know.


The quarry you never dived into.

The VW bus you couldn’t afford.

The autograph you didn’t ask for.


So clearly can you see the steps

you took from one dry stone to another

to get across each stream, so sensible and safe.


So often now your hampered heart

grips a maudlin balloon,

filled to nearly popping with regret.