It’s Never Too Late

to change.  To revive.  To release.
My Mercedes-Benz wore black tails
and a fedora; was well-groomed,
rock-reliable and utterly serious.

Gleaming and deeply reflective,
he spoke of always having been
here, and always here to stay.

Early on my marriage developed
Alzheimer’s disease.  It became
a dead marriage trapped
inside a living legality
that I dutifully carried with
me for 350 thousand
miles in the somber and
very responsible hearse.

Here is my gold ring, eternal.
And here is a bottle of our
pink wedding champagne,
now finely aged.

And when married 17 years
I went to the divorce attorney,
it was simply
to withdraw
life support.

I traded the black luxury sedan
without blemish or mechanical defect,
for a prissy Prius, in flouncy
white satin skirts who
elegantly sips gasoline
like fine white wine. Now
I’m looking for a woman
alive, a dance partner.

It is never too late to
experience innocence; to
resurrect hope, to let go
the dirge for a quickstep.