The sweetness of forgetting comes down to falling in
love with you each day all over again. Where lovers
converge there is plenty of time. Time doesn’t even come
up until the children are safely themselves. It’s always
been hard to say why we’re here, if time is a map, other
than love dropped us here. What do you make of it? An
airport moving sidewalk. We’re whisked to the end,
deposit our luggage in a cab, not so eager to resume work
or meet up with friends. In the back seat, we hold hands.
Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). He lives in Los Angeles. You can find him on IG: @larrybridges