For Your Leaving
It happens when I’m passing by the old terrace houses down Carlton St. I see the gold couch has gone from the front and 4WDs have moved in
but my favourite route still seems right — the elms and the bats overhead at night remind me of when we both lived here, as I cross the road two corners from home.
Perhaps I’m a little jealous or
I just miss your lithographs
decorating the hall —
it seems stripped of an image
only lovers could make.
Unnoticed,
the stars on the ceiling fade;
and even these words appear incidental to the scene —
some oral jazz
too late for your leaving.
Deborah Staines