Gone
She said she would let him know,
when she got there, and he’s
still waiting for a sign.
Sunday, six o’clock; forever,
preparing to pounce on nuances
of a shadow calling - showing
that she made it through.
Prideful in the chore of whittled hours,
marking his bide. Onward, pressing -
noble packet and stamp waste of days.
So now, he eats strawberries
at midnight, smokes cigarettes again.
Catches the shuttered doze and whiskey grey,
of dusk’s vague promise.
Up late, getting dressed even later.
Re-reading the scattered bedside papers
still addressed to both of them.
It’s Ok. It’s Sunday, six o’clock.