He poured himself
just the smallest
bit of coffee.

The remainder of
last night’s ***,
really.

It had sat on the
burner all night,
was now dark,
thick, ink-like.


He’d fallen asleep
in the chair after
she’d left.

The angry words
sang in the air,
whippoorwills in
his dreams;

his sleep challenged
by their flocking;
his feelings.

It was snowing
when his eyes had
finally shut themselves
against the dawn of her
departure.

As he looked at
the front steps,
the new snow fell,

(just the smallest bit…)

filling in the
footprints of her exit

with finality.

*
-JBClaywell
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