by Beth O'Brien
(Greenwich, Connecticut, USA)
I take deep breaths,
Trying to savor the smell of lobster
You carried with you every step,
Knowing one day
It will find its way back to the ocean.
The toaster is lonesome
With just one slice of bread to brown,
And the horizontal spaces of the crossword
Are left empty.
The sea breeze slips through the cracks,
Whistling through the windows
I can almost hear you humming Billy Joel.
My hands get cold,
Without your fingers there
To seal the spaces between mine.
The morning lingers,
And no longer blends into the afternoon
Like it used to,