by Richard Vince

My life is littered, it seems,
With Friday nights that
Never were, all preferable to
The ones that happened.

At least, that is how I see
Them: nostalgia for
Imaginary memories is
The most rose tinted of all.

In reality, hopes were dashed
Before I even got there.
Her world had no room
For me, and so those seven
Meandering hours of meaningless chat
Were as good as it got.

As always, I was saved from
A mistake by its other victim,
Only to make another with
A more willing accomplice.

Weekends of a different sort
Began with a dash through
An unfamiliar town that
Could so easily have led
To somewhere else.


Posted on 10/11/2020
Copyright © 2021 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Rebecca Andre on 10/12/20 at 12:56 AM

Can feel the resignation and regret. Well captured

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