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“He says it just won’t work.” I didn’t see
her face as she announced this to her friend;
I didn’t know how sorry I should be
that something’s useful life had reached its end.
Was it her marriage, or her GPS?
A soccer schedule or a plan to beat
the odds on Mideast peace? A garlic press?
A ruse for keeping an affair discreet?
Her tone betrayed no tragedy, but six
short words might not have borne the awful weight
of what was lost, or what he couldn’t fix—
or did she only need to change a date?
I wish I knew—I wish I had inquired—
if true love or a toaster had expired.