The Ones We Leave Behind

The house slips into quiet,

Its redwood clock the only sound.

And waking from a restless sleep,

He curses in the night.

 

The room feels cold and empty,

And he shivers as he stands.

Outside beneath the streetlight

An Irish drizzle dances.

 

He slides his chair back into place,

And puts the room to sleep.

And shuffling to the kitchen,

He sighs.

 

Gazing through the window,

Two chairs by a tree,

Under a winter moon,

Sit empty.

Christmas will be coming soon

 

© 2007, Tim Prendeville

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