You Lost Two Years

You tell me you lost two years

to the last man you loved.

You say if you write a poem

                   don’t mention me,

mention the night and what

you see in the street.

The parked cars

    and how tires rest with the dirt

   they’ve rolled over, how houses

have locked doors

 and one glowing window.

Mention how sad the sky is

because the person it loves

won’t look at it. Mention a storm

             but don’t give it my name,

say it’s what love does to people,

say there is a man inside the house

next door, he is half naked

with a tattoo across his chest

that says “what doesn’t kill you

makes you stranger”,

say she can't forget the way he kissed her

               in the restaurant smoking areas.

mention a woman 
that was saved by the rain

but don’t give her my name,

say she is a smoker

that survived her own fire

and has not since stood

       under an umbrella.