Those wailing hours, breath steaming

windows. I saw you in every car

passing by outside. I heard you


snoring when the heater kicked on,

sending groans through the infrastructure

of this aching house. I saw you


lifting fingertips towards me

when branches drifted in the wind

to scratch against my office window: it’s cold,


and you’re alone. Still,

I do the laundry you left behind. Dutifully

fold it the way you taught me.


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