Pictures of All the Things You Did Not Do

at the dinner party

at the neighbor’s house

you pull your iphone out

share photos of

all the things you didn’t do

on your vacation

make everybody laugh

never being outdone

at holding court

with empty shots

the one of the gate to

the museum closed

on a tuesday no less

in that foreign language

who would have guessed

the facebook post of

the handwritten dirge

on the restaurant door

to a busted water pipe

the ensuing struggle to get

your euro deposit back

the cavernous hall

of the terminal when

the malware shut down

all the homebound flights

to age wild and with grace

that’s the mask you like

to wear over your face

home a bit less sober

after being wined and dined

in the familiar corridors

of unspoken mind

other bits of nothing appear

behind your drooping lids

a sunrise garden

not planted in pastel shades

an evening garden

blossoming white

around a bubbling font

you never bought  

and as sleep stumbles

into your dark room

the same stranger’s face

the muffled sounds

of a conversation

that did not start

the taste of bitter apple

on lips you could not kiss

emails saved

in a sent folder

on the hard drive

of the folded air

-if only you  . . .

-you hurt me when . . .

-this has to end . . .

and while thoughts

begin to drift away

the picture of a life

that might have been

if you were less

black and white then

your usual dreams

halfheartedly usher in

the speculation about

unearthed photos your friends

surely must have kept

but never shared with you

negatives aging brittle

albums of glossy papers

curving at their corners

and fading to white