Redemption
 
I cannot fasten your necklace, dear wife.
My fingers once straight and purposeful are now bent.
I see the failed winter trees
and know how the branches would feel
if they were men.
 
I touch my fingertips together and
wonder when the feeling left.
I can’t remember the last time
you lifted your hair, allowing me to
circle your neck with diamonds and gold,
tiny blonde curls on the underneath
bending to the pressure of the chain,
my fingers on the clasp.
 
Come drive with me to ease my mind.
Let’s turn circles in the parking mausoleum of the
train station, make up stories about the passengers –
 
Today my love you drive.
My arm lounges out the window
waving lazily.
The wind teases my fingers
into chords I used to play on my guitar,
while I halfway watch your profile, and
whisper remembered melodies.