hopefully forgetful

forgetful, hopefully forgetful,
is this december:
not to remember
after a double winter,
opened doors and dark windows,
widows,
one widow, whose desparation
comes and sets on my armrest.
it tells me of being nineteen,
flying between
two homes, one abandoned and one unbuilt.
guilt
and maybe a sentimental tear
is what she fears,
but mostly
she sits and watches
her many plants and flowers,
and how the routine devours
her youth.
in a booth
she and i sit
with fries and martinis:
"eat" -
we laugh and go on
each to her own year.
i dare
to forget.