Cloudy in Kona:
obviously, my fault.
Up the mountain,
down the coast,
looking for a break
in the overcast
to reveal the mooncast shadow
blocking the sun, as you cursed
and pounded the steering wheel.
We’d planned for 18 months:
you joined that primitive listserve
to trade travel tips. You pointed
out the redhead you’d met
on it when we first arrived;
she looked smaller in person
than in my mind. Other than that, I don’t remember
getting there or getting back home, just the loony note
she slid under the door of the room we shared, as husband
and wife. Shaking, I tore open the envelope
and flushed it down the commode before I read
the letter I handed to you, back from a workout,
but, true to our forms, you found
the tiny white scrap on the floor;
shocked that I’d opened your mail:
my error eclipsing yours.
