To Talk

She comes to talk
but not to talk
not to have a conversation.

 She comes to tell me she is unhappy
or rather, not to tell me,
but to demonstrate her unhappiness
sitting quietly, solidly in that chair.

 She exists,
and it is my fault.
This world is not perfect,
and it is my fault.
She is unhappy,
and it is my fault.

 It is all my fault.
And I cannot cure the world.

 I cannot pull the events of our lives back
like a kite string,
rolling them up into a ball
suitably rewound
to change everything
that we have been
and are.

 She comes to talk,
and I sit in the guilt
of a lifetime
to listen.

Perry L. Powell lives near Atlanta, Georgia in the United States. His work has appeared in Atavic Poetry, Cattails, Dead Snakes, eyedrum periodically, Frogpond, Haiku Presence, Prune Juice, Ribbons, The Camel Saloon, The Heron's Nest, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Lyric, vox poetica, Wolf Willow Journal and elsewhere.