When I Think
Jeanne Marie Beaumont
about how naive I was though never
admitting it, how badly I chose early on
spending my affections carelessly as
spare change then making quick getaways
igniting the bridges—or when I think of the time
wasted brooding and stewing, my heart a sort of
crock-pot simmering bitterness, it’s good to be
grown-up at last with boxes of journals I’m unlikely
to get back to and albums of photos as a very
selective mnemonic aid as though most of life
had been a string of holidays, reunions, bright
birthday parties when of course it’s dreary Mondays,
Friday nights watching old black-and-white movies,
hands ink stained from the newspaper, waits
at the post office, subways, trips to the drugstore,
thousands of bowls of cereal, pots of soup...
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