It was my summer ambition
(and is still) to write about our daily life
but tonight instead of doing that
I spoke to a friend who is leaving a part of his life
he will come to write about later.
A fair enough trade of pages unwritten
put down on deposit for another.
Los Balcones is a hotel in Managua;
twenty five dollars a night.
These are the types of details
he will write about
when he remembers the week
he spent there leaving his former wife
who was in office at the time
but being voted out by her electorate of one
whose voice betrayed his doubt
as he spoke of her many fine points
and the way that they had loved
as if he could persuade himself
she’d jumped and not been shoved
by the same left hand that held the phone
already without its ring
and so did the band play on
without this groom
who would not sing.