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In the quiet of afternoon, naked
sunlight warming a slant of hardwood
in the kitchen, a cat, gray and idling
with heat. A tumbler’s water dances
on the table with the slight whip
from a ceiling fan.
What regrets but these, the silence,
the weight per breath sinking into the
deep cavern of the chest, the famished
loneliness, not born but nourished,
the inevitable sound of determined
feet leaving over the clicking floors,
the pause before the shutting door.
Light from the window misses a still life
with ripe pear and knife hanging on
the wall. Something should be said,
at least, of absence. Had I remained,
I might have mentioned it myself.
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