https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/55650/there-is-no-word by Tony Hoagland#poetry#poem#favorite
There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack that should have been bagged in double layers
—so that before you are even out the door you feel the weight of the jug dragging the bag down, stretching the thin
plastic handles longer and longer and you know it’s only a matter of time until bottom suddenly splits.
There is no single, unimpeachable word for that vague sensation of something moving away from you
as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
chatting with an old friend as the awareness grows in me that he is no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
a person with whom I never made the effort— until this moment, when as we say goodbye I think we share a feeling of relief,
a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
what I already am thinking about is my gratitude for language— how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how there are some holes it will not cover up; how it will move, if not inside, then around the circumference of almost anything—
how, over the years, it has given me back all the hours and days, all the plodding love and faith, all the
misunderstandings and secrets I have willingly poured into it.