The Second Chair

The Second Chair

At the table
a chair
pulled out.

Not pushed in.

I set
two plates.
One fork.
One knife.

The knife
on the left.
It should be
on the right.

I leave it.

The mail comes.
Bills.
A card
signed
by everyone
at the office.

I read
the names.
I count them.
Twice.

At night
the lamp
on the left side
of the bed
stays on.

I do not
turn it off.

I do not
turn it on.

It was already on.

Sunday.
I buy
two of everything.
Bread.
Milk.
Eggs.

The second
loaf
goes hard
on the counter.

I do not
throw it out.

The phone.
I dial
three numbers.
I stop.

I dial
four.
I stop.

I dial
the whole thing.

It rings.

I hang up.

The key
under the mat
is not
for this door.

I found it
the first week.
I have not
moved it.

Winter.
The coat
in the closet
still smells
like smoke.

I do not
wear it.

I do not
give it away.

I open
the closet
some mornings
and stand there.

On the shelf
a photograph
face down.

I know
which one.

I do not
turn it over.

I dust
around it.

In the drawer
a notebook
half-filled.

The last entry
stops
mid-sentence.

A comma.
Then nothing.

One voicemail.
I have not
deleted it.

I have not
played it
since.

The red light
blinks.

I have learned
to sleep
with it.

By the door
a pair of shoes
not mine.

I step
around them.

Guests
step
around them.

No one
asks.

The chair
pulled out.
The coat
in the closet.
The second
loaf
still on the counter.

I do not
push in
the chair.