Stormy Tuesdays

He remembers stormy Tuesdays that lasted for years
After they parted on a Tuesday and sometimes even
On a Monday it rains inside him outside a shop
He knows she would like where they sell polka dot
Sheets and pajamas or golden hair sticks from India,
Some store at the intersection of here-and-there,
Surely more then-than-now because now is nothing
He could bring back as a souvenir she would want
From him, some token dredged from the past,
An artfully labeled bottle of wine, white orchids or
The recollection of dinners in little restaurants
Near coastal waters, the way she broke the crisp
Fish skin with her fork, how with her fingers she took
The last morsels of the cheeks and stripped
The bones and left the flounder looking like
A cartoon comb. Now he cannot see a plate
Without thinking of their time together, or pause
Outside the little shops where once he stood
What seemed like hours in a bad temper
Where now he waits in the weather for her on a day
That feels like a Tuesday gone bad for him forever.