Is it that you should be here?
Or is it just the empty seat
that is an absence at my table
the unspoken ‘is your meal alright?’
There’s nothing leisurely in silence, no
eating interrupted by constant
exchange, no reason for
any chip not to chase the last.
And yet time drags as if
the silent chair is patient,
waiting for your arrival, your smile,
your weight, your choice, your sigh.
There is no hand across the table
no eyes to meet, no tender words.
No plan for the morning or
understanding of shared desires.
My bones are picked clean
the chips are downed, the chair
a final statement on the meal
you no longer wish to share.
2013 © Andie Davidson
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