The Persistence Of Memory

Almost seven years of your life
ends here,
a thoroughly nondescript courthouse
in a banal suburb,
the bauhaus tried to teach us
that there was form and beauty
in function,
but here there is just space,
benches and wasted space,
space wasted like the seven years
that had no function,

I sneak my cell phone
through the metal detector
so I can work while I wait
for an absurd man to tell me
how much he thinks I need to pay
to a girl I'm about to not be married to,
he may have gotten a law degree
somewhere, somewhen,
but arithmetic was not part of his curriculum,
I explain where his math is faulty,
he doesn't understand,
I have previously had this conversation
with my departing wife,
but she says nothing,
she has worn makeup today
in case she needs to give a statement
to reporters on the courthouse steps

there is nothing that happens here
that is dramatic,
a courtroom should have given it
some kind of gravitas
but there is nothing,
we don't even appear in court,
we agree to everything on a crowded bench
and eventually there are papers to sign
we could have done this all by mail
and when it's over
there is no relief
no sadness
no closure
only this inescapable fact:
I used to be in love with this woman,
but I can't remember why.