for now

a few things to note before bed:
the act of counting to twelve after guests leave
before turning out the porch light,
the quiet pace of dishwashing and
bagging garbage when I could be sleeping,
the tilted feel of bathrooms without paper
and cupboards missing mugs,
the awkward slump of furniture
that has been used and used for hours
and now holds bits of food, some drink,
but no persons, not anymore.
i will leave them all until the morning
and enjoy, in the meantime, the sense
of camping out, of a quick small fire
lit in the midst of ruins, of laying down
in the wake of some significant past.


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