Gone To Your Sister's

The dryer is nearly done
and the dishwasher rests,
from the morning’s dishes, and last night’s dinner
a bit of red spaghetti sauce still clings to the stove
all that’s left of your ripe tomatoes from the garden
harvested before last night’s storm--
everything else now put away
neat and
tidy, again.

I have done my chores, even mucked out the back
seat of the car, emptying the trash bag from our summer trips
and last month’s mints, still a bit rattling against the tin,
not so strong and curious
anymore.

Cat snores on your chair, until she looks up,
wondering what I am writing
as Sunday morning turns to afternoon
and the paper is long past being read.

Tea is made now, and my guitar is ready to play
the afternoon lies ahead, unused, unsung, unwritten,
maybe
unnapped.

Yet you are gone now, and the house is empty,
except for cat dreams and unplayed guitar strings,
and undrunk tea.

--Neal Lemery October, 2010