When the last person leaves and the silence rushes in,
it's hard and sudden like a blast of wind.
Tip the dirty dishes into the sink.
Take a sip of someone's watered-down drink
and deflate, deflate
onto whatever furniture will hold you,
let it enfold you.
In the suicidal dark after a 5-o'clock sunset,
still so many hours to kill before you go to bed.
You miss the people you're standing right beside.
Eighty years of longing, then we die.
Things we set our hearts on
all parading dumbly toward us to be born
with a fanfare of music,
all arriving cold and stillborn
to be mourned a space
and then replaced