He came to me hang-dog,

sat down on the porch

of the little cabin I had.

Was there anything for

the misty trail and blank diffusion,

the locked-out midlife

and dry, throat-clearing

apology for not having done

– what?

He didn’t even know,

only that it was bad.

And what did I have

to offer? Nothing but

my own head hung,

the cracked and weathered grain

of the planks under my feet,

and the assumption that I wouldn’t

be in his shoes

twenty years hence.