She wakes to the empty house
searching room by room for traces.
Has he gone?
But surely before such a journey
there would some formal leave taking?
He slipped away without a word,
and she is left bereft,
wondering why he finds it so easy to leave her,
wondering if she’s been devalued like Greek currency
or Bre-X stock.
No gold to mine after all.
Every couple crafts their own normal.
What’s familiar is what’s all right,
except when it’s not.
There will always be too many cracks for
that broken pot to hold water;
it’s fine for bread,
can’t live on bread alone.
Traces of something else,
gold veins of nourishment
are drawn with gestures
too easily forgotten,
so driving away is as simple a turning the key,
not as complicated as farewell.