|House at Dusk, by Edward Hopper, 1935|
The House at Dusk
How lonely the empty house gets at dusk.
Sometimes I imagine you are still here.
I think I see you standing in the doorway
or sitting in a chair, the you the way you were
before you got too sick to walk, too sick
to be left alone.
You return to me, young and fit,
you climbing the ladder to paint the house
or swimming laps in the town pool
or riding your bike, you going with me
to the theater or movies or museums.
The old age I had imagined for us
was not this one where you are a ghost
in the house we lived in for forty-seven years,
you the shadow in every corner,
you the person I turn to in our mahogany bed
only to find that I hold in my arms only air.
This poem was recently posted at CityLitRag. The submission window for CityLitRag opens again on August 30.
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