The Yellow Arrow

I missed the green arrow

when I raised my eyes

from the memory minestrone

the yellow arrow had spoken,

“Too late.”

It was a different airport.

Flight: Phoenix to LAX.

Southwest. Bargain basement

lure of “Stay Close! Come.

Come close. Here. With me.”

Phone rings in the

used-to-be-my-Hollywood-

apartment. He had fallen.

Asleep. Wasn’t on his way.

Yet, to the airport.

I waited. A pink and

white floral jumpsuit,

watching a parade of

taxis and shuttles for

people who hadn’t fallen

asleep. Who had arrived

on time.

Now, decades later. Different.

Stewed tomatoes replaced

jumpsuits and celery urban

apartments are swept clean.

No more blonde hair, no more

company cars, no more waiting.

Closeness is avoided.

“Stay away! Go!

Go away. Go. From me.”

The yellow arrow had spoken.

Too late.

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