Ten years we're wed . . . and you just left
a Friday afternoon that fall.
I took an early train from work
to find no one . . . no one at all.

I saw the station wagon gone,
but thought, "Claire's shopping, took her coat,
the kids and dog. They'll soon be back."
But by the sink I found your note.

"Dear Jer, I'm leaving, going home.
Don't ask me why I left today.
I didn't cheat, there's no one else,
but I'm unhappy, cannot stay."

A year has passed; my family now
resides six hundred miles from me.
The kids will text me twice a week,
but we're divorced, you've custody.

The papers came six months ago.
The grounds a term that makes no sense:
What's incompatibility?
What, Claire, went wrong? Am I that dense?

Could we have talked and worked things out?
Why did you leave? I've still no clue.
I've prayed to God, sought His advice.
I feel betrayed, but still love you.

Guess my career came first at times,
and we wed young, had kids too soon.
But, Claire, I thought you understood:
You were--you are--my sun, the moon.