Quiet Us

I don’t have any poems tonight.

In the cavernous empty spaces
The days of potentials
Cobwebbed in disrepair
I sit with my siblings
Around an antique metal kitchen table
Painted white with black ornations
Matching the trim.
It wobbles.

We sit in silence
The chairs pulled half from the table
Our legs half-spread,
Half-braced
And we’re half-here
And half a world away
Our eyes shine with galaxies spinning;
The silent testament of the stars.

Inside the quietus of these final days
We pull out the leftovers
Uncovering all the dishes
In a hodge-podge of what has been
Sprawled across the table
But no one fills a plate.
No one takes a bite;
These are the leftovers.

And this is the order of things
That have fallen out of order.

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