I do not need you. Putting
you aside, like silly putty stained
from the newspaper, I move on
to other amusements: the tinker-toys
of my career, the ant farm of my self
interest. Surrounded by playthings

I admit that our love-making
was merely a mature substitute
for throwing handfuls of sand box sand
at each other, reveling in our mastery
of dirt. There is nothing wrong with that
but I cannot make my home in a tree house.

Stooping over to peer out the window,
searching the forest floor, for you,
the pirate ready to overtake my ship,
while frying eggs for dinner and chastising
the children with skillet in hand,
is not my fantasy. I need more,

Yet I cannot unclench my fist
and let go my last handful of sand.
Instead, every Sunday I want you
to meet here at the playground, and each
time as we search for our lost action figures
I will throw one more grain at you, and smile.