Hoops Poem by Doug Lane

My ex asked me
if I knew
where
my wedding ring
was.

I knew where it
wasn't.
On my finger.
Hadn't been
there
for decades.

But that didn't mean
I didn't care
where it was.

It was
at the bottom
of the sea.
Tossed there
carelessly, carefully,
by a care worn
soul
who hadn't a care
in the world.

Who tossed away
the one thing
he cared most about
as if
it were
fish food.

Who watched
the gold hoop
sparkle
in the sun
then splash
- -gone.

And imagined it
settling to the bottom
near the pier
beside the flounders
and crabs
roaming there.

Imagining
that even
flounders
and crabs
had better
family lives
than
he.

And I realized
she wouldn't
have asked
the question
if she didn't
still have hers
and didn't still
care.

And didn't still
remember
how we went,
broke hippies,
to that little jewelry store
in Greenwich Village
and paid,
with hopes
infinitely high,
twenty dollars
apiece
for our
simple,
gold,
hoops.