I met him on the road where they repair
who, twice divorced and 40ish, begin
the shaking off forgiveness, dye their hair,
admit their own confusion with chagrin.
I thinking we could link a bit to share
a leg or more of journeying along,
invited him to challenge and compare
with me impressions taken. Nothing wrong
with that idea I thought and figure still,
but somehow it begot emotive mess
that generated flash and heat until
we cauterized the possible with stress.
It might have worked. If only we’d embraced.
But tangle without tender was a waste.