My parents’ marriage died when I was six,
and Mom reports I wasn’t that surprised.
They broke what they did not know how to fix,
for friendship didn’t prosper when disguised
as some momentous mating for all time
that neither man nor place could tear apart.
Mom thought it would have been dishonest crime
to tarry with my dad without her heart.

So she rejected sitting still with him
and he, rejected, may have made his peace
with disappointment. Dad was living dim
by then: his deed on life a flimsy lease.

And I had neither sadness nor surprise;
I wonder if I’d be me otherwise?