If only out of vanity
I have wondered what kind of woman I will be
when I am well past the summer of my raging youth
Will I still be raising revolutionary flags
and making impassioned speeches
that stir up anger in the hearts of pseudo-liberals
dressed in navy-blue conservative wear

In those years when I am grateful
I still have a good sturdy bladder
that does not leak undigested prune juice
onto diapers—no longer adorable
will I be more grateful for that
than for any forward movement in any current political cause
and will it have been worth it then
Will it have been worth the long hours
of not sleeping
that produced little more than reams
of badly written verses that catapulted me into literary spasms
but did not even whet the appetite
of the three O’ clock crowd
in the least respected of the New York poetry…

On the edge of their matrimonial bed, the sad man sat confused, out of place, as if waiting for help, except he never brought himself into calling for it. He tried hard to read the note she left behind for him. He was trying to develop the courage to hear her reasons for doing what she did. He stopped looking at the note to wipe the tears in his eyes. It has been close to an hour since he came into the scene of the incident in their bedroom, alone, except for the remains of his wife lying cold on the bed. The neatly dressed bed suggests she went quietly, without much struggle.

“There are different kinds of love they say. Happy love, sad love; family love, friendly love; love love….But what they didn’t say is all love hurts.”

He read the note, drawing deep breaths and had one of…