Lao Tzu, who was said to have been conceived
not through lovemaking but when his mother 
stared at a falling star, wrote, only those who know 
when enough is enough will ever have enough.

Like the good enough marriage.
For years, I taught a course on marriage 
and intimacy, including a part on good enough.
The theory is: Forget the fairy gold we're sold 
in the media—so unreliable—
looks shiny, turns to dried up leaves. 

Dreamer, not pragmatist, 
I was still teaching a successful marriage 
necessitated settling 
while in the middle of my divorce. 
What is good enough anyway? 

Eighty percent was not enough for me, 
and I didn't want to compromise. I thought 
I could do better, wanted the gold. 
Call it selfish, but you never worry about tossing 
one who loves you while immersed
in the awestruck desire for more. 
                        

It's another hot one—
dog paw sidewalk fry fest.
From my apartment, I'm watching 
tourists mop their brows 
on the river ferries. 

A summer of bad intentions—
the river surges over its banks 
to flood the highway, drivers 
stalled and cursing.
I can see them through my binoculars
punching their steering wheels,
throwing their hands up.

Another friend's death.
I must have been daydreaming
when they switched their ruin
from heroin and fast cars 
to junk food and drink.
My body has already shown me
it can't be trusted. 
I watch you hard, too, for any sign.

Fall will be more of the same.
I talk to you, but the words
refuse to leave my mouth. I'm held
together with glue and sequins.
You're on the phone with someone else.