Gone
Red
pen in a small book kept scribbling poems and
I
scribbled back. Stick figures on edges (wide-eyed)
drew
faces messy and fat. Lines were washed
with
ball point, and without an eraser I crossed out this
and
that to fit it in my back pocket. I showed them
to
whoever would look. Sometimes she read them.
But
mostly, she read the news.
Lately
on my sofa bed I hunch over my computer, that
kind
of night. Or at dawn I watch the sun come over
the
tall buildings and pout, a pasture of red pooling on
the
countertop. She was an anxious host, but it didn’t
show.
The distracted ones are more aware than we
give
them credit for.
We
used to watch television. Unclear if anyone actually
liked
the show, but one time we sat in that single room
and
stared for 24 hours straight, serial enjoyment against
the
fierce snow outside. Ate Chinese food with our
fingertips
and ceded the last scallion pancake. Then she
looked
up suddenly bereft saying I
should have left half an hour ago.
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