Riverbank

Sometimes after I've eaten

my late night bowl of cereal,

or my sweet roll with milk,

as I'm listening to Josephine Baker,

I think about you.

You.

You, that I left behind in the desert.

I'll remember that tragic day--

the words we refused to say,

and the sun setting in my rearview mirror

as I escaped on the highway toward Tucson.

Sweden is far colder than Arizona,

the plant life doesn't remind me of the 

cactuses of the Sonoran,

but I take strolls through the cherry blossoms 

here and it makes me smile.

Sometimes at a pub or at a park,

In the morning or in the dark,

I see you--

Your ghost in a cafe window,

or walking alongside the lake.
I wonder if you would fancy it here?

It's funny how years can seem like
only moments ago,
like that moment we sat
on a blanket on a spring day,
down on the Ohio river.
I wore a diamond on my hand
back then, and
you wore a smile,
and our little jack russel terrier
ran merrily all around the riverbank.

Not thinking of cactuses.
Not thinking of cherry blossoms.
Not thinking of Arizona.
Not thinking of Sweden,
or about how eventually the three of us would painfully forever part.