With one last favorite potion 
downed in a gulp, he’s out.
There will be
nothing more to say
about him today.

When he awakes he will 
be, or will claim to be, “a new man.”
Fresh page, clean start,
new leaf turned.  There’s
a theory for your consideration —

that anyone of that age
as dark and crusty as he is
could be new in any way
after one hard brown drink
and one hard night’s sleep. 

But his eyes are wide open now, he says,
he’s apologizing for all he’s worth,
for last night, for yesterday,
for every day before this morning.
His face is bright, his voice is sad.

You still bear his bruises, but they are fading.
He has been asleep for a very long time
and is awake, contrite, seems ready to be better.
It’s not like you can’t go along with this, hoping
against history. You can, certainly.

“After all is said and done, much more
is said than done.” Your mother
used to say that, often.  
Not sure where she got it
except through experience.

He says his eyes 
are wide open now.  He says
baby, please, I’m sorry, I’ll never, 
I’m a changed man. It’s all been said.
It’s all been done.  It’s done. Done.