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Then Too There Is This

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joy in the day's being done, however   
clumsily, and in the ticked-off lists,   
the packages nestling together,   
no one home waiting for dinner, for   
you, no one impatient for your touch   
or kind words to salve what nightly   
rises like heartburn, the ghost-lump feeling   
that one is really as alone as one had feared.   
One isn't, not really. Not really. Joy   
to see over the strip mall darkening   
right on schedule a neon-proof pink   
sunset flaring like the roof of a cat's mouth,   
cleanly ribbed, the clouds laddering up   
and lit as if by a match struck somewhere   
in the throat much deeper down.

Source: Poetry

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This poem originally appeared in the March 2004 issue of Poetry magazine

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Then Too There Is This

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