He’s lost the whiskey-weight,
ropy biceps coiled under denim.
She leans into him on a wooden bench,
looking out from under auburn bangs.
She is all bone and tendon
in her short macrame dress,
shadows between her knees and thighs
and along sharp shin-lines.
It’s all angles except for loops
formed by their left thumbs and fingers.
What is that one poster left
on the nearly bare staple-stuck wall?
He has written all the break-
up songs. Time to move on.