What’s Wrong

I can feel failure
like an empty bowl
resting in my hands.

The low warm
winter sun
leans against
my best blue suit.
I want to lie down
in a long field
of yellow grass
and sleep until darkness
with great, fierce-faced birds
circling far above
my meticulous regrets.

Today two young women
asked me which way to the river
and it seemed like
the best question
I had heard in years,
simple and worthwhile,
a good thing to know.

I should have pointed to my heart.

I should have gone down
to the river right then
in my serious blue suit
and forgiven myself
for being away from my heart
and its simple intention.

I should have gone to the river
and stayed there
like a promise
made good after many years.