Tripartite

I think in units of three.

I make change, make memories,

consume French fries in three’s.

Three stays in rehab,

three lovers named Lauren,

three sticks of gum at a time.

It’s a mannerism, a mental quirk,

an identity to be recounted at a later date—

like red light racing,

a taste for Pollock over Rauschenberg,

the mocking vow I made at eighteen

that masters me still.

There are three careers abandoned,

three women I didn’t marry,

three who wouldn’t marry me.

One friend suggests a reverence for trinities

marks the last vestige of my Catholicism.

I can give three reasons

why he may be right.