Departing

          For Scott

Six-dollar cider, Styrofoam cup already
disintegrating, between the beanie and scarf,
that look, tears gathered to crow’s feet,
denying the season is almost over. It was

Autumn the first time, Insta-worthy elk
lumbering at the park, at the Bean, a thumb
peeks into the frame so clear one could fall
into and love its intricacies. But now

“The duck was better.” The one I ordered,
cherry reduction, crisp brussels, rare, “Take mine”
after you asked the waiter if that was truffle oil
a third time. The pear tart was exhausting.

Determined, like a country song or a Windy
City wind unphased by pea coat, sweater,
skin, not the right time you said but pulled 
nearer. At O’Hare, our kiss is embarrassing

like teenagers leaving summer camp, passing
some meager memento—sunglasses, lanyard,
promises, hope. “It was good to see you,”
I didn’t expect the cold. No coat. “Take mine."

…

How strange to see them, every time a blaze
cuts across California, a tornado in Texas,
those damaged and desperate refugees take
singed teddy bears, photo albums spilling

neglected pages, family and lovers forgotten
long before this present destruction, before this
too familiar tableau, a look over the shoulder
at everything, everything we cannot take away.