It’s reflex
to set the fourth place.
My arms
move quick
across the dinner table.
Then I pull them back
like children
in danger.
People don’t understand –
It’s not just the Big Obvious Days.
It’s The Impossible Minutiae
of Ordinary Moments.
It’s catching a glimpse
of your shoes, kicked off,
by the door.
It’s the papercut
from your paperwork.
It’s a standard Wednesday.
It’s the word “never.”
It’s your empty baseball mitt from high school.
It’s the feel of your bat in my hands
because I heard a noise in the night.
It’s a fucking piece of mail with your name on it.
It’s your last coffee cup.
It’s your mother’s breath.
It’s every photo before we met.
It’s our boys’ tears
filled with hot baked grief.
It’s that you’ve never come in fourth place in your life.