Tree trunks stacked length on length; raw,
blond cuts in a line, row upon row.
I think of the choices we have made,
irreversible, regretted, the cuts
created by the buzzsaw of life.
As my train takes me from you,
I savor my Dewar’s scotch,
think how much you mean to me
and what cannot be -- decisions,
life’s cuts, bleeding, stump holes.
I count each ring, each scar,
dream that once more my fingers
run over your blond thighs,
and I sigh, oh yes, I sigh.
Christopher T. George