She’s gone, for the time being.
For an interim of some fourteen days.
We argued. Of course. She’s a teenager,
after all, who leaves dissonance
all over the bathroom floor. She knows
the game: I call her back in
to pick up swabs and staves and get rid
of those awkward tubular bells
and plastic jars filled with god-knows
what. But it’s not always like that.
There’s also the steady beat of our talk,
the saxophone gurgle of our jokes
and jabs. I don’t play the bass,
and neither does she, but someone
or something sure as hell does,
because the assurance of her presence,
and maybe mine too, for her,
well, it drones on in the background
whenever we eat, on those walks
in the park, and through the long
cantata of the night after
the lights go out, even if, when I lean
against the doorway and say sleep tight,
I catch her reaching for the earphones
and those tunes I know nothing about.