The sadness of taillights, of crunching gravel
growing fainter, of the empty wine bottle
on the hotel nightstand, of a plane’s drone
in a clear sky at 4 p.m., of tomato soup
in the vacant hospital cafeteria.

The sadness of being wrong. Of being right.
Of long gray hair. Of all you don’t yet know.
Of all you do. Of the balloon rising, unmoored,
ribboned, above the grocery store parking lot.

The sadness of the straight face. Of the red eye.
The sadness of sadness that won’t come,
but sends blankness in its place.

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