talked and flirted, moved furniture and touched
things up, but the hole in my day hasn’t gone away.
It is there, wide and tall, deep, dark, hollow, and all
I did, or can do, only makes it all seem more true.
“Separation” sounds scientific, perhaps surgical
like conjoined twins leaving an O.R. on separate
gurneys; one thing ends, then two continue on
or parts of a space launch coming apart, one going
on, while the other, as expected, drops easily away.
“Trial” seems too tentative, like trial and error or
better, a test drive around a block or two to try
things out, like taking off the training wheels and
watching the children ride away from us, watch
them grow away from us, trying out their new
found separateness, or like a trial-size that comes
in the mail, but then grows larger, even family size
or like something with a thirty day guarantee and
if we aren’t satisfied we can send it back for a full
refund, minus postage and all this damn handling.
Cupboard bare, glass emptied all the way,
Tank bone dry, empty sleeve, empty socket,
A vacant lot, a blank stare, hollow, devoid,
Dismal, pointless, futile, aimless, drained,
Uninhabited, barren, worthless, exhausted,
And that’s just this morning.
J. K. Durick is presently a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Juice, Napalm and Novocain, Third Wednesday, and Common Ground Review.