Diana Pinckney

Myrtle Court

(for a man married to the same woman all of his life)

Crape myrtles draped the sidewalks

down your childhood street, blossoms

in the fountain’s three tiers.

We coppered the circle on the bottom,

with pennies we threw, believing it made

a difference. What swam

in our heads with such trust? And what

has time bought — who saved who?

Remember the argument

one election eve that lasted until love

at dawn? Not even the day’s bright gold

stopped us from canceling each other’s vote.

Now a cul-de-sac, the court holds

young families adding decks

to tile and stucco houses,

driveways wide with vans and jeeps.

Magenta petals stain the stones

where we climbed wet steps,

peering through all that spilled

to see what settled.