When regret comes
with his stale breath
and tattered coat, arriving
at your door as he does
on the chillest night,
it is still easy to want
to close the door
and suggest he move
down the road. You know
if you let him in, he’ll ask
for your last glass of wine,
then wonder aloud
if you have any thread
to fix his overcoat, and
perhaps you know how
to sew? You guess
from that bottomless look
in his eye that no matter what
you do it will not be help enough.
Regret, you might say,
I’ll have none of you.
But you know he’ll come back,
next time with his dog,
its fleas, his flies.
Better, perhaps, to let him
in now. Offer him the wine.
Water, too. And when he says,
If only … then you might say,
I hear you. And when he says,
I wish … then you might say,
It’s not easy. Look him straight
in the eye. You both know
it’s true. He might cry.
It’s okay. You might cry, too.
And outside, the stars,
the stars do what stars
do. The night is cold,
he was right about that.
And the needle, it moves
through the threadbare wool,
your fingers sure of
every stitch.