If things play out a certain way
I can imagine living, perhaps alone
In a small wooden hut
On the side of a hill
In sight of the sea.
New sheets.
An old cookpot.
And a pile of wornout shoes.
I'd pick a pair each morning,
And cover nine,
Or perhaps ten miles
One for every year we shared.
And at each passing milestone
I'd look for different paths
And imagine where we might have led.