The Hour You Usually Called
Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
At six I begin listening
for a sound that will not come.
The kettle finishes.
A bus lowers itself at the corner.
Upstairs, someone drags a chair.
Every noise approaches your voice
and becomes itself instead.
By seven the room is only a room.
I wash the cup,
leave the phone face up,
and carry your absence
into the rest of the evening.
63 words · 12 lines · Free Verse