Say you're driving through a strange town, not strange,
really, but unfamiliar. Eventually
you'll pass that one particular house where
you'll almost stop, or at least briefly idle.
There will be something in the way the shutters
blister, how the late sun makes a parallel
blazoned pane with the door that will tell you
that this is the house of your other life.
The one in which you told him yes, in which
the branch did not, ultimately, catch her,
in which the storm kept your father from making
that train. You can almost see your red chair
in the living room, can't you, and the back
of a head you pray won't turn toward your lights.