I sit at the kitchen table
with a third mug of bourbon
and watch as your silhouette covers the window,
a well-fed spook
that pierces the pane with squinty eyes,
the glass fogged
by the grime of whiskey and dusk.
The first time you shadowed my yard,
drifting over
from your new place down the street,
we met on the threshold,
you staring up at me
as you stood there wearing cardboard shoes on your feet.
Watching you adjust your coat against the warm night,
I heard only the rustle of your silence in the trees
where beer glazed moonlight
sharpened the razor-edged darkness.
Without words, though,
I never knew if you came to see me
or the splash of the lamp-lit
window
where yellow spills onto the shrubs and grass
all night,
a signal that I am still home
waiting
for a chance to hear the loving rasp of your whisper
just once more
before you turn to leave beyond the streetlight’s glow.