Rue

Nothing like a what-if thought
to rummage through my memories, caught
again inside the pointless wheel
of doubting what I think and feel.
How many times must I annoint
some reasoned lines in counterpoint
and dub the past as well and done?
How many times will my dreams run
another pass through past events
where hindsight's not yet better sense?
Why does the past come, secret, stealing?
For some things is there never healing?
Curses on the wild what-if
that sets my happy mood adrift.