John A. Nieves
The only spot on the table where day hasn't kissed
any color away. The lower left corner of the junk
drawer that has no business staring nakedly
back. The peg shining coatless on the landing. The series
of shapes my tongue and lips find less
and less need to take. The act of closing
the bathroom door. And opening it. Worrying
who's parked-in and who's leaving first. Someone
else leaving. Remembering not to drink
the last cup of coffee. Brewing coffee. Trying
not to wake someone up while dressing. Not being
alarmed when things move or go missing. Not
missing anyone. The anticipation
of your hand on the knob, the lock, the rest of it.