A poem


On your last day you stay inside while your wife spends
an hour on the beach.
She had invited you to go once more
but you showered instead, packed,and read the Times.

When she returns
you see her happiness like a dolphin
jumping its whole body out of water
and twirling.

She says how smooth and quiet
the gulf is now, how she walked through the clear
warm water and saw four long metallic fish swim in formation ahead of her,
how there were more dolphin than usual
so easy to see with no waves, the sure curve
of their fins. She says she feels the dolphins said goodbye and she's ready now to go.

She doesn't say you should have gone with me.

William Palmer

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