I can still write a love poem

We are all, all of us,
trying to be. I believe that.

I remember Samantha
in her lonely apartment,
stingy with the pinot
because she is agoraphobic
and an alcoholic,
talking to her parakeet
in whistles.

Jamie asked me to dance,
and I declined
as I was fielding other offers,
and other silky heads of hair
grooved on my shoulders
as she watched.
I would know the same.

I go back to Nancy knitting in her chair,
routing for the Yankees,
standing up for A-Rod like a spouse
with every woolen loop.

Sue's mouth open,
the kiss of winter,
and now, the dry heat of the angels.

Frank asked me the same question,
and showed me the same goods.

I remember my father's words,
separated from his reckless voice
like yolks.

And my mother's face
when she realized, when she stood,
the broken shells.

That kid who panicked
on the high board, and cracked his noggin,
and it was I who dove in after.

We're trying.
We're trying.

Polly stifling
professional tears.

I remember what they wrote
in my yearbook, I read it from time to time.

Anthony broke the ice,
floated with me downstream on the flows,
and he's married now.

And I remember you,
a you, one version of it,
trying, trying.

I saw souls encumbered with reality,
trying quietly to be, to be.