Places I Cannot Go

Almost I could drive it in my sleep
Over the bridge, and past the mothballed fleet
Almost two hours, left on one thirteen
Third exit right, left, left, right, left and park
Beside the swimming pool. But if I went
To the back door, not even if I brought
My daughter with me, whom she loved as well,
(As anybody would) would she be there.

Boston is farther, most of a day’s flight,
A house there where, for more than half my life,
I’ve spent my New Years. Board games. Lots of food
And conversation. But she died last night.
The party may go on a year or two
Or three on memory, but Marian
Who crafted it, and many things besides,
Tea parties, woven baskets, and a house
Of good repute—a label she denied—
Will not be there.