Tony Trigilio Dating While Married

A shame the moon was wasted on a scene like this,
walking home in bare-tree Sunday night silence
hunchbacked against the chill. I stopped for a beer
at Bruno’s, today’s football highlights playing
on a small flat-screen mounted above the register.
I took the long route home, to the alley where
a broken ComEd pole teeters over our parking lot.
Nerve-wracking, it’s going to fall any day now,
a Richard Serra sculpture one slight tremor away
from crushing our neighbors’ cars. Our black steel

patio sling chair so cold it stung when I sat.
The stars floated like random numbers.
It would’ve been the best night for a cigarette if
I still smoked. I stared at the church bell tower across
the alley until I convinced myself it was where
Jimmy Stewart cured his acrophobia in Vertigo.
Looked up every time I heard the sandpaper crackle
of cars making slow turns into the alley, expecting
one would be yours. They seemed to move with extra
care, clumsy, as if scared to tell me what I’m not
ready to hear. This feeling is like plastic—we produce
more and more every day without knowing what to do
with it. Oceans hide it, acres beneath the surface.
Fish get stuck and, powerless, drift with the tides.

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