I turned around
at the end of a long corridor
to seek contemporaries,
found a few,
craned my neck to find peers,
found a few,
looked then for friends —

and they were distant,
at the far end
of the hall, whispering,
perhaps wondering
where I’d gone…

Little of what they said
was coherent
over such a distance

but from tone of voice 
I knew, I understood, that 
it is I who left them, that
it is I who cannot see a way back.

No matter how clearly I can see
and understand
how straight and direct
the corridor between us is,
there is no way back.  

The strains
of the old song ring out:
non, je ne regrette rien.
“I Regret Nothing.”  
The singer’s last words?

“Every damn thing
you do in this life,
you pay for.”