I look up at the tenements and wonder
how many of them are like me.
Hidden by roofs and walls and windows, sitting, chasing their
butterflies of silent obsessions as they
threaten to fly too close to the net.
Do they too struggle with eternity?

I go by my old apartment, by the college, and don't hear my voice at the door. No more my reflection in the glass bulb. Whoever's inside there now, I hope they fill the space better than I did -- hope they're remembering to laugh once a day.

When I get home I make coffee.
I add creamer and sugar.
I stir it until they disappear.