The house will be a quiet hollow,
but for the cloth-muffled echo,
your thoughtless call for the one

you wish well. You'll watch him go,
into the gleaming car and down
the road, under the trees. You'll know

he's elsewhere, but hear his name
in your own voice as you reach
for two cups off the upper shelf.

He'll almost answer, though
it will only be the cat on the piano,
that groan of the furnace starting up,

or the kitchen door hinge, your ears
listening on behalf of the part of you
sure he's still here. In the corner—

they call it a corner, but it's all
the moment's surround—of your eye,
that smile you know without thought,

that quiet surprise, will appear,
and disappear quick as you look,
and you will look, to see if he's here.