An empty Chair
Clean plates collect dust
Food warming on the stove begins to burn
Candles pooling in forgotten molten wells
Clock ticking

Listening
For car tires in the drive way
For keys clacking
For a knock
For anything

The soufflé has fallen
The condensation on two glasses weeps
The rings that will be left on the table are not thought of
The asparagus wrinkles and is past well done
Hands turn
The wine bottle lightens
Thoughts of throwing dishes
“I’ll be home at seven”

Comes home at seven
In the morning
To a smoke filled kitchen
To a set table
To wicks burned down to hilts
To a melted ice cubes
To dried blackened memories of a once perfectly cooked meal
To carefully folded napkins
To wilted flowers

To an empty house and a still open back door