Disappointment

I was feeling pretty religious standing on the bridge in my winter coat looking down at the gray water: the sharp little waves dusted with snow, fish in their tin armor. That's what I like about disappointment: the way it slows you down, when the querulous insistent chatter of desire goes dead calm and the minor roadside flowers pronounce their quiet colors, and the red dirt of the hillside glows. She played the flute, he played the fiddle and the moon came up over the barn. Then he didn't get the job, — or her father died before she told him that one, most important thing— and everything got still. It was February or October It was July I remember it so clear You don't have to pursue anything ever again It's over You're free You're unemployed You just have to stand there looking out on the water in your trench coat of solitude with your scarf of resignation lifting in the wind.