Regrets

‘Regret is mostly caused by not having
done anything.’
― Charles Bukowski


Here is that cup of tea
I never brought you
before time ran out.

And, fresh from the market stall,
the favourite flowers I always forgot to buy
as I walked home in the rain.

And what else? Here is the winter coat
you should have owned
but did without. Saving the pennies!

But where is that love poem
I never wrote for you? Don’t ask.
I often thought it. Never wrote it.

Oh, and just one more thing: here is
that strange picture you used to desire.
I’ve hung it on the wall. See?

Thus it is, I enter, with a bowlful of regrets.
Carefully, I place it,
on the coffin of your memory

and raise a glass
of your favourite tipple.
I down it in one. And move on.


Art: Hold The Open Heart by William Kentridge, 2015