A quiet afternoon, the naked
sunlight warming a slant of hardwood
in the office, a cat, black
and humming with the heat.
A water glass dances on the table
with the knock of the ceiling fan.
Where is regret in this? The silence,
the weight of each breath sinking
into the deep cavern of the chest.
There is loneliness, not born
by it, but nourished. The dread
sound of brute feet leaving
over the creaking floorboards,
the pause before a shutting door.
Light from the window misses
a still life with lemon peel
hanging on the wall. Something
should be said, at least, of absence.
Maybe I should have said it.