It happens once, in his absense.
The bright hall rings, rings, and midring
clicks back over into silence.
It leaves two isolated sighs,
hers, momentarily frozen
before an ovean of blank space
that by nightfall he'll come across
and save against the backdrop of
a Friday evening office;
abandon; rewind to and play
more times than make sense; tomorrow,
or the day after, wipe away.
(c)1999 by The Gettysburg Review
All Rights Reserved
