Indianapolis

“Are you going to miss me?”
You asked cheerfully, packing for a business trip
to Cleveland or Indianapolis
or wherever one does audits on manufacturing plants
and eats steaks rare with A1 sauce and onion rings.

“Did I, when you left me before?”
Last July, in the early morning of a hot day
your side of the bed still warm from the dent
your head made on the pillow, your slippers still under the bed.
Only to call a week later,
to say you can’t do “this” anymore.
As if “this” was a Monopoly game we were playing or
Chutes and Ladders.
At least not now, but maybe later?

The tik tok of the clock each autumn day
At 4:30pm when the bus pulled up across the street
But you didn’t walk out, with your headphones in
And your sunglasses on, smelling of peppermints
To mask cigarettes or Macallan 12.

And the house was resoundingly empty
At least at night, when I sometimes saw the shadow of your back
The moonlight cascading in through the half curtained window
But it was only the blanket holding me.