Day Two Without You

Usually, when I am just about halfway

through my breakfast, you approach

the kitchen table, stop, look at me,

but before I can scoop you up and

set you in my lap, or offer you the

other chair, you scamp off toward

the living room—glance back,

scamp, glance, scamp.  This

is your not-so-subtle way

of telling me I have had ample

time with my bagel, and that I

should bring my coffee with me

to Mystie’s Coffee Shop, a section

of the living room, which boasts a

Tiffany blue square ceramic water

bowl, as well as a six by six inch flat

wood table, on which I can place my mug.

This area is conveniently located in front of

the stereo,  so I will remember to turn on your

favorite blues station.  It happens to be the place

where your kitty blanket and all your brushes are

stored, under the stereo cabinet. The weight of your
absence made the sunless thundering sky -- soaking
fallen leaves on the ground outside almost go unnoticed.