Lamplight

This is my street-lamp. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Under this lamp, I first kissed David, after he walked me home from Harry’s Bar.

Under this lamp, I asked him to move in.

And now under this lamp, I fix his picture. He went to buy milk, never came back.

And I wonder: was it me? Did I say something, do something wrong? Did he meet someone else?

They found a body in the woods. Decomposed, unidentifiable. Right height.

It probably wasn’t him, I think, as I pass his face in its patch of light.