I get the feeling, I’m supposed to
be meeting you some place.
Maybe a dinner date, I’m missing
and you’re one breadbasket
away from calling me a
fucker and heading back home.
This is what happens when you’ve
been with the same person for so
long; when it ends the mundane
muscle memory of routine persists.
And weren’t we supposed to go to the
thrift store and buy one hundred and
twenty seven books?
You’re there now, boxes full of
paperbacks and hardcovers,
with old Virginia Woolf reaching
out a hand from the inside of the
box to help.
And where am I this evening, while
you are out with friends, speaking
ill of me, of the marvelous
non-climactic end to us?
I am most likely, waiting for you at home,
dinner set to warm.
