Moving On by Alan Catlin

 
Cleaning their bedroom
after my father and step
mother died, I found a
sealed envelope of photos
of my mother some fifty,
maybe sixty years before
their divorce.
 
Of that woman he had
correctly said, “She needed
help.  More help of a kind
I couldn’t provide her
in two million years.”
 
He had so moved on,
I thought he wasn’t upset
when I told him she’d
died alone and crazy in
some sadassed New York
City hotel room full of
worthless junk.
 
Apparently, I was wrong
about how he must have
felt.  Was wrong about
more than I could ever
have imagined.

2 Responses to “Moving On by Alan Catlin”

  1. Like old man river, Alan Catlin keeps rolling along.

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