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The Absence of Her Presence

I suppose there is some emptiness now, yes.

   A house full of art and furniture,

   stuffed with her absence,

   bursting with just me here now.

The rooms always the way I leave them,

   never the way she did;

   her mess of makeup,

   her piles of pots and pans in the sink.

I should mow the weeds away

   from the Adirondacks and paint them.

   They look worse off than I do.

I bought a seersucker suit I can’t

   bring myself to wear:

   somehow it doesn’t make sense.

Nothing makes sense,

   the wine before bed time,

   sleeping in pajamas now.

What can I do? There’s nothing I can do.

I suppose there is some emptiness now, yes.

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