They ask me if I have regrets

They ask me if I have regrets
Regrets at twenty-two.
I can only turn my head and hope
To not smile at their peach faces—
I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.

Regrets at twenty-two.
I try so hard. Keeping cool.
Inaudible snicker, subtle smile
Who would possibly ask this question?
Regrets at thirteen, maybe, never twenty-two.

I turn to my old lady—
My loyal, pink cheeked, shiny shine—
Our pupils meet
In the soft, gentle corner of our eyes
You give back the exact same smile.

I turn to They,
They, always asking questions
With that look—
That look a pigeon gives, with crooked neck,
To a lonely lovely sitting on benchswings.

Regrets? I ask. Perhaps with mocking tone.
I’ve crossed the world, our Earth, our love
I’ve shot from star to star, plane to plane.
I’ve seen enough to know I wish to see it all
And that will always await me.

I’ve traveled to Italy and Thailand,
Seen dunes and canyons and wastelands.
Met shamans, healers, worshippers, prayers;
With three billion brothers and three billion sisters
How ask for more?

I look deep
In my wife’s eyes.
I turned to They,
Still standing, jaw slacked. Maw agape.
Her beauty stuns, even centuries later.

I’ve experienced (I stand staring at my only one)
What no one could ever match.
I’ve held the perfect hand in mine,
Entwined within my jacket pocket.
Pushing hair to gaze a face nobody’s seen. Save one.

My paralyzed beam
Following you, room to room,
Batch on the beach?
An Otis Burrito? A Cartoon Squirrel?
Imagination towning heart.

Regrets? At Twenty-two?
Will reply with another question:
Could you lament life on the island
With a glee queen to yourself?

Of course not.