The first done was
that holiday done.
He said something stupid,
and she let him have it.
“What? We’re done.”
The second done
came in the laundry room,
in a nasty exchange
where he said,
“You’re so fucking miserable. Why?”
To which she replied,
“Fuck you. We’re done.”
The third done
came on the dance floor in Mexico.
She wanted to dance, they just flew in.
He wanted to go to the hotel room
and have sex.
She stormed back to the room.
Made him sleep on the couch.
In the middle of the night he came to bed,
As he was going down on her,
she stopped him, waved her finger and said,
“Last time, we’re done.”
The fourth done came on
a balcony in Madrid.
He held her from behind
and she felt it turn off for him.
Like a light switch.
She didn’t say a word.
It was a silent, but deadly done.
The fifth done came
when they met back in New York.
It was brief,
she gave him a peck on the cheek,
they had lunch and she left.
He said, “I know, we’re done.
“Still love you though.”
The sixth done came
as he was writing his book in the desert.
She called him and told him
that she was packing her things.
Her mother rented a huge shipping container
and they took absolutely everything.
He came home to an empty house,
with his new boots that book money had bought.
“It’s my turn” he said to the squirrel,
(who had returned, hoping for some almonds.)
“To be done.”