I knew a man, when I was 44,
who seemed a maybe-boyfriend when we met.
I liked his thoughts and observations more
than physical affection. Soon regret
replaced my interest, and I grew to rue
an intimate relationship with him.
He nagged without initiative – the view
became a comic skit, a fancy whim.
We used to exercise – I recollect
his pointed toes that should be heel on floor:
a tiny memory, now he’s no more.
His dance was flawed – his posture an affect –
but now that vision’s fond. I didn’t know
the man would die from cancer of the toe.