I always use that old chipped green coffee mug.
I never could tell you why.
Stupid secret from another time.
Antiques that follow me.
Our old ice cream haunt from the decades
died this summer.
You began your folding, too.
Still you soldier on,
wearing regret that you could not incite me
to a life.
We come home to the warm room.
Awkward furniture, arranged oddly.
Not encouraging real warmth.
There’s a plush chair, the odd man out, never sat in,
except by the cat.
Company be damned.
I undress for bed.
Pull the car keys and change from my pockets.
Bypassing the proper places,
I lay the keys on a soft stack of facecloths,
the change on a wooly sock, also out of place.
Quiet private wishes,
vicarious comfort for the bones.
Where is the green cup, I ask.