Now that I know what love isn’t,
instructed by a history of errors,
I can say for sure
what I’ve long suspected:
that night drive home from Cincinnati
dozens of years ago
(or was is only ten)
meant as much as the whole decade since.
Two lovers: one for a night and one for the long run,
one on wheels and one with an anchor.
It seems unfair that the first would
still drive me to the same conclusion:
that it’s possible for love to float alongside you
separate from the safety of your ship
like an old lifeboat, tethered,
just waiting for you to jump in.