I didn’t argue with you when you told me
Robert Todd Lincoln had a summer home in Vermont
but I didn’t really believe you until I read it
in that travel guide we picked up at the House of Cheese

He’d been there with his mother just before his father
was shot in the head – he’d stayed at that gorgeous inn
right near the fly fishing museum.

We passed by and talked about stove-pipe hats
old photos – and how small the green mountains seemed.
“His birthday was a couple of weeks ago,” I said.

“Whose?” you said. I laughed at you.
“Never mind.”
“you’d look good in a hat like that,” you snicker and run
your hand through my hair.