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I cannot help but notice the
Hole in the space beside me.
It bespeaks absence, placeless
Listing. An abrogation.
At the oddest times the thought will
Strike me: This moment, those times,
Should have been shared, but
Were instead spent solitarily.
It seems a pity, then, that
Clichés stand so readily by
To describe the sentiment of
Missing one held dear.
In light of this, a poem seems
A protest against the reality of
How might one attest the fact?
How memorialize counter-fulfillment,
Shame, regret, et cetera, if all are so
Immensely old-hat for the Muse?
Wordsworth, Neruda and the Bard
Are of no help: They dumped me here,
Disconsolate, tipsy, on an untilled field
With nothing to plow with but a pen.
I'll roll up my sleeves.
It was like a feeble hop
In lieu of a walk.
A whiff in place of
Being alright, instead of delight.
I suppose none of this was really bad.