Strolling down Thayer Street in the early morning,
Amy’s dogged by that constant thought –
can you really start a life over?
That’s when a guy walks briskly by her,
a baby in a sling pressed tight to his chest,
the kid, from what she can see, sleeping soundly
as the father goes through his exercise routine.
He’s her age. Okay maybe a little younger.
But within the range of possibility.
He doesn’t shoot a glance her way
but he has a child to look after.
That’s what she’d want. At least, eventually.
Then she thinks of his wife.
And she hates it when she gets jealous for no reason.
He’s no doubt as happy and contented
as a guy who gets upgraded to first class on a plane.
But why couldn’t he be her husband?
Why couldn’t that be her child?
No doubt, a full breakfast awaits him on his return home –
crisp bacon, three eggs over easy and steamy hot coffee.
And who knows, maybe even sex.
He has the body for it.
And she, no doubt, doesn’t complain.
Amy’s ex was no stud stallion, that’s for sure.
He was the type who’d sit at the kitchen table for hours
trying to reconcile check book with bank balance.
His idea of passion was to smash his pocket calculator
against the wall when the numbers failed to agree.
They had a daughter together at least.
And the child is with her all the time but for a weekend once a month.
And Amy’s alive. And not totally unattractive.
With a job. And an apartment. She could start over.
Besides, her daughter’s life now includes schoolfriends but precludes mothers.
They won’t really need each other again until the girl
is a woman also in her thirties and looking back on a screwed-up life.
She’ll ask her mother, “How come when it all went so wrong
you were able to mop up the mess and start over?”
“I suffered enough for regret,” Amy will reply.
“Just not for bitterness.”

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Dalhousie Review and Blood And Thunder. Work upcoming in Hollins Critic, Redactions and California Quarterly.