AT WORK

When you walk past
I pretend

I never stroked your unshaven face,
kissed your neck or laughed at your tired jokes.

I pretend I never begged for you
incessantly
and that you, without pride or dignity
(those tired, old clothes)
did the same, sometimes on your knees.

I was your ruler, you were mine.
Sometimes, when we sit side by side,
I let my hand be near yours.

 Remembering is terrible.

Susan Waters started out as a journalist covering hard news in upstate New York and for 13 years was a magazine editor and writer at the Virginia Institute of Marine Science, College of William and Mary. Her publishing credits are extensive. She has won 10 prizes in poetry and has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry. Her chapbook Heat Lightning was published in 2017 by Orchard Street Press. Currently, she is Professor Emeritus at New Mexico Junior College.